


The Devil's Epitaph

by intothesilentland



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angel Castiel, Angel Wings, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Bottom Dean, Demon Dean, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hate to Love, Hurt/Comfort, King Dean, M/M, Medieval Fantasy, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Potential violence, Prince Castiel, Prince Dean, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Soul Sex, Soulmates, Top Castiel, Wing Kink, present tense narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:33:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 220,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7721914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intothesilentland/pseuds/intothesilentland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has spent his whole life hearing about Angels - and Castiel has spent his whole life dreaming about Humans. From different worlds, and both dreaming of a life other than their own,  when it is announced that Castiel is to be married to a Human prince, and Dean to an Angel, they surely ought to be overjoyed... But when has anything in life gone so simply? </p>
<p>Coming to name each other friends, lovers, soulmates, enemies; the two will battle odds, armies and the devil himself in a world where intrigue and betrayal thrive most, and attachments lead to certain death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fairy Tales

**Author's Note:**

> So, here it is at last! I took way too long in trying to make this perfect, and so I've just decided to post Chapter 1 and hope for the best. I hope this lives up to expectations! To give you all an understanding of this, without too many spoilers, this work is going to be the ENORMOUS (like, well over 20 chapters, each chapter over 10,000 words) kind of big. It'll start out pretty simple, and I'm sorry if a simple love story is all you wanted; but things are going to begin to pick up and complicate themselves at a fairly drastic rate, with intrigue, betrayal and a swarm of family secrets all tangling together to ruin any simplicity Dean and Castiel could have dreamed of. Demon!Dean is going to feature (but much later on), I'm currently unsure about descriptions of violence/how graphic they will be (if they feature, as with any smut, I'll put warnings in the chapter notes as to severity and where in the chapter they feature), but bear in mind that both Dean and Castiel will come to fight in war throughout the story. I can't really tell you how long this is going to be, but a lot over 200,000 words for sure.
> 
> As for what part of Medieval history this is set it, I don't really know. I'm not a historian. Also, it's a fantasy world, so there's that. And as with The Lord of the Rings, I suppose dependent on geographical location, a lot of places are going to seem a lot more advanced than others. I'm doing my best at writing the cultures/nations described in here as uniquely as possible, so forgive me if they're not entirely convincing.
> 
> The language that the Angels speak (which will be called Enochian) is based off John Dee and Edward Kelley's Enochian, Hebrew and Aramaic, and a few others. This isn't true of ALL names and places, and isn't really relevant for the first couple of chapters, but I thought I'd just explain that here. The culture and religion of the Angels is pretty much unified, with a couple of branches that aren't entirely dissimilar, and strands within the main religion. It gets explored later on. The language of the Humans is a bit more complicated, because there are so many, but culture and language in Hera (Dean's kingdom) is mainly based off western (Greek, Medieval English and a tiny bit of Celtic I guess). I'll go over that later on. Kingdoms like Dione are different, and the Demon kingdoms are going to be VERY different, but they'll be explored later. All the names have meanings, so if you want to look those up, go ahead! I might write them all down in chapter notes later on, but not now.
> 
> I hope that's all pretty clear. If anyone wants to beta the next couple of chapters, that'd be deeply appreciated, if anyone wants to draw fanart(!!!) of this 'verse, I'd love you forever and definitely post it on here. I'll make a tumblr for this story (thedevilsepitaph) answering any questions you have, and posting updates etc about the story.
> 
> I'm also considering having every fifth chapter being from another character's perspective - every chapter at the moment alternates between Dean, Cas's, Dean, Cas's POV, and I understand if another character's chapter interrupting that isn't really ideal for you? The other option is writing companion stories to go alongside. Let me know what you think!
> 
> And that's all I can think of. No chapter warnings apply for this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

**The Devil’s Epitaph**

****

**_“Once upon a time, an angel and a devil fell in love. It did not end well.”_ **

― Laini Taylor, Daughter of Smoke & Bone

 

**Chapter 1—Fairy Tales**

**“I remember my childhood as a long wish to be elsewhere.”**

—        Louise Glück, from “Unpainted Door”

 

 “Really, John, what’s the issue?” Sir Robert sits opposite Dean at the great long table in the Dining Hall of Castle Hera, speaking directly to only the King, who looks like he’d very much prefer not to be having this conversation. John rests his chin in his palm and refuses to look at his High-Thane of the Royal Court and Grand-Chancellor of some thirteen years. Dean glances up for a moment at Sir Robert, the raggedy, ageing man he has grown to regard so affectionately over the course of his life: it’s usual for him to have very little idea of what it is Chancellor and his father are talking about—particularly when they are discussing matters of the Kingdom over meals—and Dean in general tries to avoid such disputes; simply because both his father and Bobby seem to get so worked up with one another. But on this occasion, something about the High-Thane’s tone seems markedly different to all the conversations Dean has grown so used and so indifferent to, something about his voice makes the subject-matter seem urgent and covert.

Bobby’s beard remains, in general, relatively untrimmed the vast majority of the time; and Dean is sure that the man could pass as a farmer of the lowlands if he were to stop donning doublets of deep reds and purples and start wearing some of the plain, loose shirts tied unevenly at the neck that the masses in the citadel below so often seem to wear. As it is, Sir Robert’s appearances are so often untidy that Dean often comments that the adviser and close friend of his father could just as easily be one who worked in the stables as one who led the Royal Courts and meetings of Hera’s Ealdors.

“The _issue?!”_ John repeats incredulously. Dean feels his gut twist uncomfortably; the motion an oddly accurate reflection of the scowl worming its way across his father’s face. “How about the fact that when our Kingdom needed Angel support the _most_ , none was given? Even when we asked—nay, _begged_ for it?! How about the fact that only now, after thirteen years, they _finally_ come to aid us in the effort against the Demons?” John punctuates this final part of the sentence with a sharp bang of his closed fist against the dark, ruddy table; and Dean winces as he stares down at his food, feeling discomfort at the situation burn across his skin. His face feels hot, his ears in particular. Can’t Bobby and his father save this discussion for later? When Dean doesn’t have to be present and cringing in his seat across from them?

The darkwood table makes a shuddering, dull sound under his father’s fist, and Dean is only glad that Sammy isn’t here; that the boy dined earlier that day with Ellen and his page: he seems to hate conflict and arguments even more than Dean does—and moments such as these, where the King works himself up to quite such a frustrated state, are horrible to have to sit through for any amount of time. Dean bites the inside of his mouth and pretends to examine the carvings on the table which have never seemed to bear so much interest as they do now; the carvings of ancient battles won and lost, and of dragons and griffins and risen dead and the foolish kings and wise queens of old.

“You don’t know that’s all that they’re coming to speak about—do you remember what they said? About one of them and—” Bobby makes a peculiarly vague, uncomfortable gesture towards Dean, just as he had been marking each feather of an open pair of wings on the carved table belonging to one of the High Kings of ancient times. He _had_ been pretending that he could hardly hear the hardly muted debate taking place across from him, feigning utter ignorance and hiding the fact that he notes every syllable of these debates. Now, however, Dean sits up a little straighter in his chair, curiosity and confusion twisting slightly in his veins as he looks up at Bobby and his father, seated across from him.

“That’s the other thing.” John frowns, his face setting in some kind of grim resolution. “I don’t know how I feel about my son marrying one of those—” He makes another gesture, not dissimilar to the one Bobby had made, and Dean frowns again. “— _Creatures_.” He finishes bitterly, as though the word sets a bad taste in his mouth.

“What?” Dean asks, perplexed although not unaware that he is interrupting as he stares up at the tired lines of his father’s face.

“Dean, we’ll talk about this later—” Dean’s father sighs from the head of the table, rubbing his face with the heel of his calloused palm and looking altogether incredibly drained, visibly brushing Dean’s question aside with his other hand. The evening light from the stained glass window of the dining hall streams through the room, dappling itself across the King’s bronze coronet; and under it the King’s skin looks an odd mix of oranges, purples, yellows and blues. Dean thinks absently that this is probably better than the angry red that it probably really _is_ at this moment in time.

“You really ought to tell him now, My Lord.” Bobby frowns with intent at the King.

John glares at his adviser. “Don’t—”

“Tell me what?” Dean stares at both of the men sat opposite him. Why are they behaving so oddly? On most occasions, were Dean to take an interest in the affairs of the Kingdom, they would both be visibly _relieved—_ taking it as a sign that Dean was finally wanting to come to terms with some of his responsibilities as a prince and take a hand in organising the affairs of the Kingdom, as is his royal duty—but _now_ they both look as though they’d rather be a hundred leagues from the dining hall they are seated in.

“Dean, you can’t be expected to understand—”

“Yes I can—” Dean frowns again, his face setting into a hard, frustrated expression. He’s _sixteen,_ dammit. “If it involves me, then I should know— _especially_ if it involves marriage.” He glares at the two older men, watching as John in particular squirms in his seat, and Bobby sighs into his hand. “You did _say_ marriage, didn’t you?” He glowers.

“Dean, you’re a child, you can’t—”

“They’ve—the Angels, that is—have asked us if you would want to marry one of their own.” Bobby explains, interrupting John rather pointedly. The King  scowls at the disruption, twisting at the ring that sits on the fourth finger of his left hand, as seems to be his habit when feeling frustrated or uncomfortable.

“They’ve asked me— _just_ me—if Dean could marry one of them.” John corrects, his words bitten out a little more than is needed, but Bobby simply glares at the King in response. Dean has never met anyone who is as prepared as Bobby to speak or act quite so rudely toward the King of Hera, the most powerful man of the Earthly Kingdoms.

“And whatever happens will be utterly _Dean’s_ choice.” Bobby sighs, putting a great deal of emphasis on each of his words and turning back to Dean. Dean finds himself suddenly unable to make eye contact with the older man and instead examines the servants scuttling in meek nervousness around the edge of the hall. They never dare stray too close during these fights for fear of the King lashing out at them for causing a distraction. Right now, Dean can sympathise an awful lot. “This will be their first visit down in several centuries, as I’m sure you’re aware, and so it’s also a very important one—for a mass of reasons. The Angels say they’re going to become a lot more involved with affairs down here, once more—”

“—About time.” John scowls, but Bobby brushes his comment aside with a roll of his eyes and another sigh of annoyance. Were anyone else this blunt and dismissive with the King, Dean is fairly certain they’d spend a cold fortnight in the castle dungeons, if they were _lucky_ —yet as it is, Sir Robert seems to be able to get away with close enough to murder around Dean’s father. “And with that, they want to strengthen the bonds between their Kingdoms and ours. You marrying one of them—well, honestly, it would be of great benefit to the Kingdom of Hera and to all the other Human Kingdoms.” Bobby explains. Dean’s insides are trembling—he grips at the ornate silver cutlery in his hands tight enough that he can feel the metal engraved with his family crest beginning to give, his knuckles turning white.

“Why me?” Dean asks, an odd, terrified hollow forming in his chest.

“Sammy’s too young, Dean. Far too young. You know that.”

“I’m young, too!” Dean counters, the frown worming its way further across his face. “Father—you _just_ called me a child!”

“You’re seventeen; you’ll be crowned prince, officially, very soon.”

“Why not someone from the other Kingdoms?” Dean asks. Someone else. There’s got to be _anyone_ else—doesn’t the Kingdom of Dione have a Princess around Dean’s age?! Dean is _sure_ she’s only a few years younger than himself—and what about Eofor? Surely the Angels would much prefer to have one of their own marry into the nobility of the shining, ancient Kingdom of _Eofor._

“There is no one else.” John sighs. “At least nobody that they want. I don’t know if there even _is_ any royal blood of the right age in the other Kingdoms.”

There definitely is. Dean’s father is wrong—Bobby is wrong—the _Angels_ are wrong—Dean isn’t getting married; he can’t, he _won’t—_

 “What if I say no?” He asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a terrified flurry of what feels a little like desperate hope. Maybe Dean can refuse—Bobby had said it was Dean’s choice, hadn’t he? Dean can say no; he can politely decline, all this terribleness can be over and done with. Dean can’t _marry_ someone; he’s not ready and he’s not happy with the thought—and an _arranged_ marriage?!

“That’d be pretty damn selfish of you.” John scowls from the head of the table. Dean’s gaze flickers from defiantly meeting his father’s own gaze to the throne his father sits on at meal times. “And if I have to accept this, Dean, then you should, too.”

It is at these words that Dean’s insides tremble with frustration.

“Why exactly would it be selfish of me?” Dean asks angrily.

“Because this marriage would benefit both our kingdom, and the Angels.” Dean’s father replies just as quickly. Apparently there’s no room for argument—not that this means that Dean is going to stop trying. “And we need all the support we can get, frankly.”

“So it’s only about the war, then?” Dean glares.

Of course. It’s always about the war. Dean struggles to find any amount of reasons as to why this should come as a surprise—but he cannot find an explanation for the fact that this knowledge still drives a thin, sharp dagger of pain through his heart. Maybe he’d hoped his father had cared for more than revenge in at least _one_ of the milestones of Dean’s life.

“Dean, these are the sacrifices you have to make when you’re royalty. You should know that by now!” Apparently Dean is being frustratingly slow to understand, judging by his father’s tone—but it isn’t fair that John should get so infuriated over this, particularly when _Dean_ is the one being so appallingly wronged here.

“I don’t _want_ to—” Dean’s jaw is tightening and he can feel the humiliating press of tears at his eyes, stinging at the place just behind his vision. His hand moves to grip the long table, instead of the silver of his knife and fork, desperate for an object a little more grounding to touch. He feels anxious, suddenly as though he’s floating away from the earth, his head spinning while his father’s ugly words of duty and responsibility come ringing in his ears.

“—And you don’t have to.” Bobby reassures before John can interrupt again. Bobby’s voice cuts through Dean’s thoughts and it feels as though a cord that had been winding tighter and tighter inside of Dean has suddenly been severed. It almost makes him want to slump with something not dissimilar to relief. “Whatever happens, it’s up to you, Dean. We’re not going to force you to do anything, especially if you don’t want to. And you won’t have to make your decision for a long while, anyway.”

Dean tries to take a steadying breath—one to even out the thoughts storming in his mind, but it’s not easy. Questions—he still has _so many_ unanswered questions. He breathes again and resolves to ask them.

“Who would I be marrying?” He looks back up at Sir Robert, because the pain inside his chest is telling him that looking up at his father is going to be a little too much of an agonising task.

There is an excruciating silence. Dean can recognise what it means all too well. He grimaces at it, discomfort and frustration coiling sharply through him.

“Who would I be marrying?” He asks again, wincing at how slowly he probes the question through his nearly gritted teeth.

“We don’t know, yet.” Bobby admits, glancing down. “They haven’t said.”

The tension stretching inside of Dean’s chest snaps suddenly, and unlike earlier this motion is not of a relief to Dean.

“For fuck’s sake!” He shouts—his voice has risen stunningly quickly in his anger, and Dean would have almost felt surprised at himself if it wasn’t for the near _fury_ boiling his insides in the moment. “This is a fucking _arranged marriage_ —that’s all it is!”

“Dean!” John snaps, making Dean flinch back where he sits, his temper cooling quickly. His hand finds the edge of the darkwood table again. It grips hard enough that Dean’s fingers go numb, prickling only occasionally with pinheads of pain in protest of the pressure Dean puts them under—he stares back down at his lap, face burning with shame. He wants to return to his quarters, to sleep, to scream into his pillow or vent to Sammy or Ellen; but he can’t do any of these things, because he’s needed _here_ and Dean has a duty to remain in his father’s presence until he is excused.

It feels as though the weight of the Four Earthly Kingdoms have been dropped suddenly and without warning onto his shoulders.

“I’ve been writing to the King of Evadne—that is, the High King of all the Angels, Michael— who says that the one you’ll be marrying is a member of their royal family.” Bobby explains.

“Great, so they’re not marrying me off to a travelling silk merchant.” Dean spits, resting his chin on top of the palm of his hand. “I’ll remember to count my fucking blessings.”

John growls again.

“You’d do well to speak with more respect when they arrive, boy.”

Dean looks away.

“He’s nobility, yes, Dean.” Sir Robert sighs.

“So it’s a he?” Dean raises his eyebrows. “The one I’m marrying?”

“Yes.”

“At least I know one thing about him.” Dean grumbles, looking down pointedly—but he hears his father heave a sigh diagonal to him, and his face heats yet again.

“Angel culture is very different to our own, Dean.” Bobby speaks frustratingly patronisingly to Dean. “They don’t treat love the same way humans do—”

“I can tell.” Dean bites. Right now, he isn’t feeling any amount of affection or adoration for the Angels or their culture, and he doesn’t want to receive a lecture on it from Bobby.

“Listen, Dean.” John sighs, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand, yet again. Something about the motion is immensely frustrating to Dean. “You have to make these kinds of sacrifices when you’re royalty.” Dean has already heard this crap a thousand times before, yet the words still cause magma to set its way through his bloodstream. “You’ll understand when you’re king.”

There it is again. The reminder of Dean’s responsibilities. Dean looks down, unable to maintain eye contact with either his father or with Bobby.

“Fine.” He nods hollowly. “I’ll meet them.”

“This is for the benefit of the kingdom, Dean.” John reminds. His voice has gone gentle again, but it does nothing to soothe the storm raging in Dean’s heart.

“I know.” Dean swallows. He steels himself slightly. There is a silence. It is painfully awkward for a few agonisingly long moments, and a tense, anxious worry strikes deep into Dean’s gut as a particular thought crosses his mind. “How am I going to tell Sammy?” He looks up at the two men. “Would marrying one of them—would it mean leaving him all alone, here?” He asks, searching first Bobby’s, then his father, the King’s, eyes.

“This is a time of great uncertainty, Dean…” John starts awkwardly.

“Would it mean leaving Sammy?” Dean asks again, voice trembling. “Living up there,” He gestures outside one of the windows, probably not even in the right direction, “with the Angels?” He continues glaring at Bobby and John, watching them shift uncomfortably in their seats.

Of course, neither of them have an answer for Dean.

 

 

Dean doesn’t want to marry _anyone_ , let alone an Angel.

Angels are cowards, he decided long ago. They are all too happy with surrounding themselves in their own self-righteousness; with being worshipped and idolised and adored by humanity below them, who all the while are getting slaughtered by each other as much as they are by the Demons from the deserts across the Great Sea.

Dean has spent his whole life hearing about the Angels.

Angels have become the things of fairy tales to Humans over the years. Their kind are the subjects of bedtime stories told by parents to their children, they are the soft reassurance to those suffering nightmares and fits of terror. The quiet calm of the hushed words “Angels are watching over you” has stemmed the flow of childish tears and soothed the nerves of countless generations of Humans. Angels are fairy-tales and the characters of myth and legend; the subject of fascination and enthrallment for scholars and philosophers as well as children.

But they exist nonetheless. Not that anyone alive now would know it, though—they haven’t visited the Earthly Realm in _centuries,_ and most people have accepted that they never _will._

To Dean, Angels had once been infinitely captivating. He still doesn’t know what it is, exactly—something had always drawn him, uncontrollably, constantly, to their stories, to the myths and folklore surrounding them and each of their ways.

He had listened, since his childhood, to the tales of their kingdoms, of their customs, of each and every one of their traditions. As a child he was captivated by their ways, so oddly different to those of Humans, and yet bearing undeniable similarities—like a skewed mirror image where everything on the other side seems that little bit more fantastical.

As a child, Dean had asked of their stories to anyone who would answer him, paying rapt attention to whatever it was they had to say. He loved hearing of the Angels. Dean used to drink up those words like water.

He doesn’t any more.

The Angels live up the mountains—the mountains so high that no human dares to venture there; the mountains so far north that to attempt to cross onto their borders would be a near death wish. Before the Great Mountains in which the Angels live are far smaller ones, and before that, miles of rolling emerald hills. There, the hill tribes of the north dwell; technically part of the Human Kingdoms, although they rarely act like it. Bobby says they spend their lives on horseback and do not farm or plough the land as most Humans do; but live off it by hunting and foraging for edible plants; moving from place to place when this food runs low, living constantly on foot. Most people in Hera speak of such tribes dismissively, but something about the freedom with which they seem to live has always fascinated Dean.

The Angel Kingdoms are often called the Heavenly Realms—although Dean has no idea if this is what the Angels themselves call their dwelling—the mountains are where the Angels’ cities and towns and villages are—so high up from the earth that they are almost touching the clouds. This was what Dean’s mother had always told him. She once said that the Angels live so far up in the sky that they practically dwelt in the heavens.

The mountainous regions stretch around three of the four Earthly Kingdoms—these are the kingdoms occupied by Humans. The mountains cloak the horizon in their misted, dark grey silhouettes.

Dean has always dreamed of venturing out to visit them one day. Visiting the mountains, the Angels, was a thought that once occupied his mind more than any other subject.  On many a night, he would stare out of his bedroom window, out into the sky, watching the way that the clouds swirl over the heads of the mountains, encompassing their peaks. He imagined each time what it must be like to live there with the Angels; to live so high up that you are able to wake up each morning and look out across the entire earth, just as the rising sun must do each day. He has long since stopped doing so—he has long since grown up.

Years ago, Dean would watch the sun set behind the mountains each night, fascinated by the way their peaks trapped its rays for short, mesmerising bursts of time. As a child he had thought this happened because of the Angels’ powers: he had been convinced the Angels used magic to capture the sun’s rays around their land, for those fleeting, brief moments, just for the sheer innocent beauty of it—to watch the rays dance off of the rocks that surrounded their home in one glorious moment of molten gold.

He had always been so enchanted by their tales, by their culture.

He still is—but he’ll never admit to that now.

Dean’s mother had sparked the fascination deep within him. She would tell him stories of the Angels, late in the evening, before she kissed him softly on his forehead and wished him a peaceful night’s sleep, humming an old lullaby under her breath, her voice more delicate than dewy cobwebs on Autumn mornings and twice as beautiful. She had told him of how the Angels were the most beautiful, the wisest, the oldest and most powerful of all the three of the corporeal races of their world. She had explained how they were the most ancient of beings in all the lands of the earth.

The three races—the Angels, the Demons, and the Humans, all live as separate nations. Their collection of kingdoms, their realms, are all separated by at least one natural barrier—whether this is the great sea, barring between the land of the Humans and that of the Demons, or the mountains themselves, separating Human territory from Angels’ with miles of rising rock. There has grown to be a great distrust between each of the races. Dean can remember being told by his tutor on countless occasions that humankind has not spoken to or interacted with the Angels in many ages; that the Angels were the ones who severed ties.

Apparently, the age of silence has ended.

Dean’s Kingdom has been at war with both of the Demon Kingdoms for thirteen years. For what feels like Dean’s entire lifetime, he has spent each dinner with his father, the King, listening to discussions of tactics in battle; of ways they might be able to win the war, ways in which to defeat the enemy. Not all the Earthly Kingdoms have joined in with this fight—two have had to drop in and out of the war effort because of their own responsibilities and military needs, and one kingdom, Dione, has never joined in Dean’s Kingdom’s fight against the Demons at all.

But Dean’s Kingdom never stops in the war. Dean’s father never stops.

According to some myths, Angels can live forever. This isn’t how Dean’s mother, Mary, had always explained things, and so Dean has decided that he isn’t sure if he believes it. Dean has always felt almost threatened by the idea that something could be so ancient, so powerful, and yet, it is equally fascinating—reassuring of the Angels’ might and power—to think that any one of them could be quite so aged.

North or the Earthly Realms are the Heavenly Kingdoms—these are the kingdoms occupied by the Angels. Angels roam the streets there, which Dean imagines are embedded with jewels and plated with gold—where they would go home to their families; they would buy their food—do Angels need food? Dean still finds it strange to think that they could feel hunger. But then, all creatures eat. Surely Angels could be no different?

The Angel dwellings sit high overhead in the mountains, away from possible attacks from both Demons and Humankind. Dean had, as a child, always felt as though he could understand this, with war and battle so constantly raging in the zones below Angel dwelling. Dean has spent his childhood thinking of how very astute this was of the Angels, to live such withdrawn lives. The wisdom of restraint. The King does not sympathise with the Angels so much. He has always seen the Angel’s lack of involvement as indifference at best. Either this, or cowardice. Dean supposes that this is a burden which must come with being a king—one which he will have to bear, too, one day—the burden of being so continuously disenchanted.

John has always said that he dislikes the Angels. He still says it, although now Dean finds himself agreeing far more than he used to—far more than Dean’s childhood self would probably like to know. John takes such a different stance to the creatures of the Heavenly Realms than the one that Dean had once taken. He takes an astonishingly different stance to that of Dean’s mother, Mary, when she had been alive. But Dean understands now.

When the Demon Kingdom of Aiathen had attacked their own kingdom, the Queen, Dean’s mother, had been slaughtered. She had been trying to protect her children when it had happened—specifically, trying to protect her youngest son, Samuel. Her death had shattered Dean’s father’s now agonisingly brittle heart irreparably, and had splintered into Dean’s own. When John had called for help from the Angels, to seek revenge on the Demons, to wage a war against them for the loss of his wife and so many of the kingdom’s citizens; none had arrived—and so for thirteen years, John has blamed the Angels for the fact he had been unable to seek revenge and find peace, at last.

_“They stay up in their clouds, Dean, up in their mountains, where they think they’re better than the rest of us—choosing to grace us with their presence every few centuries—just when it suits them, mind—but when we ask them for help?! For aid? For support, for an army? Where the fuck are they, Dean? Where the fuck are they?”_

Dean would bite down quietly on his lip, glancing at the floor and shrugging as he always did when the King worked himself up into a bitter frenzy on these matters. At a remarkably early age, Dean learnt that it was no use disagreeing with or debating such things with his father.

 _“I’ll tell you where—”_ Dean’s father would continue, a cutting combination of malice and despondency filling his eyes. _“They’re turning their noses up at us. They think they’re too good to help us, they pretend they can’t see from up there in the clouds. They’ve convinced themselves that they’re better than us.”_

At this, Dean would look away, biting away the shame of his own heartbreak.

John Winchester is certain that the Angels do not care at all for humanity. He is convinced that they still hold little regard for the suffering of others—particularly Humans; that they value the lives of a few of their own more than they do whole legions of Humans.

Dean’s mother had never taught him things like that. All that John has said of the Angels after her death contradicts all her stories completely—all her stories of the wise and powerful Angels, the race of people as old as time itself, whose history is richer and deeper than the Cerydien sea running thickly between the Human territories and that of the Demons’. Legend has it that the Angels, in all their compassion, had placed the great, glittering sea between the land of the Humans and the Demons at the very beginning of Humanity’s time in the universe, just after the birth of the first Earthly Kingdom, to separate the Humans from the Demons. To keep them safe. Dean’s mother had always said that this was why the rivers that fed into the Great Sea could be traced back to the hearts of the mountains in which the Angels dwelt. She’d said the streams that formed the rivers had been made long ago by the Angels for humanity’s protection.

 _“A great lot of fucking good it did us.”_ Dean’s father would spit whenever Dean thought to bring this up. He would gesture bitterly, miserably, to the empty throne beside his own as he said this, and Dean would look down, tears sparking in his own eyes as he bore the weight of discovering that _two_ sets of beings he once fiercely idolised were nowhere near as wise nor as benevolent as he had once believed.

Both the Angels and Dean’s father had let him down to an irreparable degree.

This said, Dean had once desperately wanted to keep the fairy tales alive. He couldn’t bring himself to let his father’s harsh words dent his faith. He had felt that the Angels _had_ to be everything his mother had said they were—he hadn’t known what he’d do if they weren’t everything he had dreamed them to be.

The four Earthly Kingdoms—the nations in which humanity dwells—are mainly surrounded by the mountains. Three of the four are completely encompassed—these are the kingdoms of Hera, Eofor, and Corinna.

Eofor—the oldest of all the four; is said to be where mankind first originated. It is where the Angels witnessed the birth of humanity from on top of their mountains, and, for a time, had come down from their dwellings to assist and to guide the Humans through all things.  Eofor is the kingdom situated furthest from the sea of Cerydien—and so is the safest place for humans to settle if protection from the Demons is what they desire. Since the first kingdom, Humans have only strayed closer to the boundaries marked out by the great sea; closer to the borders of the Demon Nations. Dean has visited Eofor only once before; when he was a very young boy. This was just following the death of his mother and the outbreak of the war with the Demons. Dean remembers the visit as a mess of rivers and lakes surrounded by forest; all with the closest silhouettes of the mountains on the horizon Dean had ever seen. He felt, if he wanted, that he could _walk_ to the Heavenly Realms and away from the sadness of his own world. The great castle in Eofor had been a mammoth dome of marble and granite surrounded by turrets and low, white walls. It bore a stark contrast to the grey defences of Dean’s own home.

The Second Kingdom—the kingdom that is Dean’s home, the kingdom he will soon rule over—is the largest of all the Earthly Kingdoms. It stretches from the sea all the way up to the low mountains before the Angel’s borders; and Dean suspects that _this_ is the true reason behind why Hera had been attacked thirteen years ago. Dean has always thought that the Demons had planned the attack tactically; they had believed that the clearest root to the Angel’s realm was through the Kingdom of Hera.

Dean’s father has always insisted that the Angels had set up the Human’s kingdoms as a barrier, as a buffer zone against the Demons—that Dean’s home was simply a method the Angels had set up to protect themselves from potential attack.

The Third Kingdom that sits beside the mountains is the kingdom of Corinna. Hera, Eofor and Corinna are all allies—particularly in the effort against the Demons and their assaults. Eofor is currently involved in the war against the Demon Kingdoms, too—Corinna was forced to pull back forces a few years ago, due to lack of resources and the demands of their own conflicts, both internal and external. But Dean knows from his father that the land is planning on soon assisting Hera in their efforts again. Corinna is a land filled with marshes and swamps—local folklore tells of the fairies and sprites and spirit folk that dwell in the remotest of these; but Dean swore to himself a long time ago that he would stop trusting in myths and folklore, however harmless the ideas of marshland fairies may be.

Dione is the fourth kingdom—the final kingdom of the Humans. It is the smallest of all of the Earthly Kingdoms, its great castle sits closest to the sea; and is the most closely allied with the Demons. Despite being the smallest of humanity’s kingdoms, Dean knows from experience that its armies and methods of war are brutal. Dione, like Hera, lies beside the great sea of Cerydien. After the Angels had watched humanity expand to this point, after Dione had been built, they had stopped involving themselves in the affairs of Humans so often. Legend has it, they feared how tightly allied Dione and the Demon kingdoms were, and would continue to become, and had fled back to the mountains and to their own land. Dean had always disliked this part of the Angels’ story. The use of the word ‘fled’ in particular. It reminded him that even the Angels, the items of myth and lore and his own imagination, were very much imperfect. The move seems almost cowardly—and of course Dean’s father constantly latches on to it as further proof of the race’s unscrupulous character.

The Earthly kingdoms often face conflict with each other, as well as with the Demons: the most common of these conflicts is that between Corinna and Dione, in a disagreement over the spacing of land and territory—just a few months ago; Dean’s father had been forced to go to war against Dione because of how closely allied Corinna and Hera have been these past few decades. Disputes between Corinna and Dione occur very often; as they are set so closely together. Assisting Corinna in their war had been the first time Dean had been in battle—the first time he had seen real bloodshed. He has been training for war, for combat, his whole life—but at sixteen, his father had finally allowed him to actually _fight_.

Years of idolising the courage and brutality of warfare and fighting could not possibly have prepared Dean for what he saw; and as fate would have it, this idolisation of the affairs of battle served to disadvantage him in the grand scheme of things. After having seen conflict like that; Dean understands why John dislikes the Angels so much for their apparent utter indifference in the affairs of war. He now understands why John is still so furious that no help had arrived when he had asked for it. In comparison to the war against the Demons, what Dean has seen and fought through with Dione is laughable, is child’s play. But scars still litter his body from the battlefield, and sleep is something which Dean is deprived of now, more often than not, plagued instead with nightmares of swords sharp enough to cut through chainmail and woken by fits of cold sweats.

War is brutal and merciless. Dean knows this for certain, now. And Angels choose not to become involved, despite the abundance of Human suffering. Dean dislikes this. After seeing war for the first time, Dean stopped idolising Angels. He wishes they would get tangled in Humanity’s affairs, just as woven into battle and heartbreak as the Humans are—he wishes they would do _something_ , just as his father wished when the war had only just begun. And so Dean now shares his father’s opinions on the cowardly nature of Angelkind.

As far as Dean knows, there are only two Demon Kingdoms. These are the only two any Human seems aware of, at least; the Kingdoms of Aiathen and Heolster. They lie across the sea of Cerydien, and Dean has always been grateful for the natural barrier of the sea, despite how ineffectual as it has proven in the past. As a child, whenever Dean spoke of the Demons to those people who had actually experienced them; had lived through the attack on Hera thirteen years ago, a cold fear struck into the very depths of their eyes. Dean can’t bring himself to think of how horrific the attack must have been. He can only remember a very little of it himself—but it’s more than enough.

Dean has been told that Demon eyes are black; that a dull, smoky void forms over the entirety of the eye if the Demon so wishes—according to myth, many Demons have eyes varying upon black—some are apparently red, others yellow, and rarer still, an odd, misty white, filling the pupil, the iris, and the entire body of the eye.

The Demons are ferocious and merciless in their battle. Dean knows this for certain. He had only been four years old at the time of the Demon’s assault and of his mother’s death. Dean’s father has been grotesquely intent on revenge for the vast majority of Dean’s life. Over the years, the idea of retribution has consumed him—although Dean has no idea how his father plans to achieve justice through war.

Over the stories of Demons, Dean has always much preferred to hear the folklore of the Angels. He used to love the stories of how an Angel’s very life force can glow from the pits of their souls, shining out of their bodies, from their eyes, if they wish to show it. He adored hearing of how they destroy Demons with no more than a touch, how they can sink into each other’s minds and communicate without word or language, with no voice at all; of how this is what they use to communicate over the great distances of the mountains. Dean has learnt that many believe that Angels can also peer into the depths of a person’s soul, if they wish to do so. He has learnt that people had once thought their eyes held the secrets to all things; that one would feel as though an Angel was boring into their mind in a kind of beautiful agony if that Angel’s gaze was set steadily on them.

Dean has learnt how their wings; huge in size and length, stretch out, far behind an angel, when they go in to battle, colossal and bold and terrifying against their enemies; but of how they are also softer than silk to the touch. He imagines them to be more delicate than milk glass or bone china.

Dean has also heard that Angels have magic—a magic deeper than that of the sorcerers and seers of the Earthly Kingdoms—Dean has heard that Angels can shake the ground and surrounding buildings at their will; that they can heal the injured with no more than a touch. Dean’s mother always said that it was foolish to describe any of this as magic; that it was inaccurate, but Dean had never understood the Angels or the lore surrounding them enough to fully comprehend why. He had thought that when he was older, he would be able to ask his mother exactly what she meant when she said this; and that he’d finally be able to understand. But now Dean _is_ older, and his mother is gone.

As a child, Dean had loved most of all to hear about their wings. Queen Mary had always told Dean that Angel’s wings come in a vast array of colours. Many Angel wings are simply white, she said; and others, a velvet black—the most beautiful, blackest black that could ever be imagined. Darker than the night sky before dawn, she said. The Angels who are most common, the lower classes of Angels—although Dean struggles to see how _any_ angel could be considered a lower class—generally have grey wings, or dull cream coloured wings. Royalty and nobility often, if not always, have more than one colour in their feathers.

Mary had always told Dean, whenever he asked, of the most beautiful combination of colours on the wings of an Angel. Dean would listen to her words, sweeter than honey, as she leant over his bed and whispered these great truths to him as though they were radiant secrets, like little stars she had captured in hiding and showed only to Dean. In Dean’s mind, each of these stars were infinitely better than _any_ other bedtime story.

Mary’s parents—Dean’s grandparents—had learnt of the Angels their whole lives; had studied literature and poetry and art of the Angels—they had held a better understanding of Angel traditions, culture, biology, ideology, than anyone else in perhaps any of the Earthly Kingdoms. And they had passed all this knowledge onto their daughter.

She had explained that the colour of an Angel’s wings would be telling of different traits of each particular Angel—like palm reading, she had said. Many of the Angel nobility have silver and gold colouring—a sign that they are destined to be great leaders, whether that be of armies or of kingdoms—others have yellows and oranges—this, she had said, shows that they belong in politics, as advisers, as council-members.  She said that Angels with red in their wings are great explorers and teachers; that Angels with white and yellow wings are thought to be destined to cause great change. She would speak for hours about the many combinations of wing colours, and what they all meant about an Angel.

Mary had always stopped before explaining the final type of feathered wings that could be found. She always said they were very rare.

Black feathered wings—with distressed blue tips—were a sign of great humanity in an Angel.

Dean had frowned and asked his mother what that meant, whenever she had explained it to him. She would give him a small, knowing smile, and say that perhaps when he was older he would understand. She had always said that Angels, despite all their power and wisdom and integrity, were capable of far less love than most humans are, that they have always had very little comprehension of the term “soul mate” and all its implications. Dean had pointed out that _he_ had very little idea of what soul mates were, too; but Mary had always smiled at this, ruffling his hair gently, and stating that when he was older, he would understand this, also. As with so many other things concerning the Angels, Dean _is_ older, and he still doesn’t understand.

Dean doesn’t trust the Angels like he used to—he scoffs at his younger self for being so childishly convinced of their righteousness, of their purity and wisdom and grace. Dean’s mother had always explained that becoming an adult meant understanding that those you idolise are flawed, too. Once again, Dean hadn’t quite understood at the time. But he understands now. He understands whenever he walks in on the king, alone in his quarters or in the main hall, his face blotchy and red, crying because of the loss of his beloved wife, surrounded by empty bottles; his speech slurred and bitter with regret.

He has asked desperately since the time that he had first seen war, why it was that Angels seem so content in watching such suffering without intervening. Perhaps Angels are not just and fair and compassionate, after all. Perhaps Dean’s mother had been wrong, an agonising thought, not least because of the fact that _everything_ that Dean had once known of the Angels and life itself came from his mother.

Mary taught Dean that the Angels had three kingdoms. Each of them is apparently flawless in both location and architecture. Dean can believe this—the surrounding mountains, Dean can imagine, would set a beautiful scene for any city.

The Angel Kingdom closest to their own Kingdom, Hera, is named Theia—‘The City of Gold’, his mother had always called it. It is the smallest of all the Angel Kingdoms, and the youngest of all their territories—although it is still an infinite many ages older than any of the Human Kingdoms. Theia is apparently especially famous for the warriors it has put forward in days of old—which only further adds to the bitter taste at the back of Dean’s mouth whenever he thinks of the aid not given to Hera by the Angels thirteen years previously.

The Second Kingdom, Tyrzah, is situated close to Corinna—it stretches round, on the other side of the mountain ranges to Theia. Mary had always told Dean that Tyrzah holds the most skilled artists in all of Althalia. Dean had imagined sculptures and paintings of Angels; massive ones—stretching high above the heads of many, enchanting everyone who looks at them. Dean had always found it easy to believe that a great many Angels were practiced artists.

The First Kingdom, and the oldest in all of those in Althalia, is the kingdom of Evadne. It sits in the middle of the three Angel kingdoms; the most important, most beautiful, most adored and most ancient of all. Of all the Angel kingdoms, Evadne is the one Dean has always desired to visit the most.

But Dean will not be seeing the Angel dwellings—not today, and not _ever_ —because Angels from each of their three Kingdoms will be coming to visit Hera, but Dean will remain unable to see their homes for himself.

Dean wakes depressingly early the morning of the Angel’s first visit in centuries. He would have much rather slept in, for as many hours as possible, putting off the upcoming day and whatever it held—but part of him has been completely unable to get any proper sleep. It’s the same part of him that is still drunk with excitement for _finally_ seeing Angels, in person, up close, after years of wanting to—Dean loathes with all of his being the part of his soul that so desperately clings onto his childhood fairy tales. It feels as though he is at war with himself, even now. He has been staring up at his ceiling, his heart racing in nervous anticipation, for hours. He has run over—and in fact, is still running over, the same, countless number of questions, over and over in his mind.

What will the Angels be like? Will they be exactly as Dean’s mother had always told him? Would they be _anything_ like Dean’s mother had told him? Why did they choose to visit Hera and not Eofor? Why did they choose _Dean_ to marry off one of their own to? And _who_ exactly is it that Dean will be marrying?

They echo around his skull, his mind reeling, until Dean almost feels sick. No, _definitely_ feels sick. He still has an awful, humiliating, childish amount of hope when it comes to the Angels. He wants them to be noble, moral, wishes that there is some kind of excuse that they have for not involving themselves in the war between Humanity and Demons, which has been raging ferociously, seemingly endlessly, ever since the death of Mary Winchester.

Dean swallows thickly as he pulls on his shirt—he isn’t going to bother dressing particularly smartly, he has decided—it’s not worth it. It’s not as though he wants to make any kind of positive impressions; anyway. Maybe if he looks deliberately bad— _awful_ —then the Angel expected to marry him will no longer wish to do so… Well, it’s _some_ kind of plan, at least, he resolves to himself. Dean sits down on his bed and pulls on his boots, chewing on his bottom lip nervously as he ties the laces—this whole thing—the potential marriage—all of it—is _shitting_ on what Dean has dreamed of since childhood; on an experience he has always imagined would blow all others out of the water.

_Meeting the Angels._

He knows that he should feel honoured; that he should be flattered that they consider him suitable enough to marry one of their own—but right now he just feels awfully ill and very apprehensive. Not to mention incredibly pissed that it feels so much like he is being forced into such a life-changing decision as this—and _only_ because it means Hera and the Angel Kingdoms will become closer allies.

He hears a cautious knocking at the door.

“Come in.” He calls, sighing deeply.

“Prince Dean,” A servant peers round the door nervously. “Your Father, the King, asked me to see if you wanted any assistance—”

“I’m fine.” Dean answers quickly, shaking his head.

He does _so_ loathe the notion of servants dressing him. He always has. It isn’t just patronising; it’s demeaning—and Dean holds this opinion in the full knowledge that every morning, John is dressed by servants. He hates the thought that his father is so certain of his own importance that he has to have other people dress him, even though he is perfectly capable of doing so himself. And surely the servants have better things to do, anyway? Especially today, of _all_ days.

Dean is _never_ going to get dressed by a servant. He’s never going to have someone else tie up his boots for him, pull on his shirts. It’s fucking belittling—for both parties involved. Dean is an adult. He can fucking dress himself, thank you.

“He wanted to make sure you look presentable for the Angels—”

“I look fine.” Dean shrugs, deliberately dismissive—he instantly dislikes his own tone; it sounds far too like the condescension his father’s voice takes when speaking to his servants—but Dean reminds himself that he has every excuse to be in a shitty mood, today. He is also aware of the fact that he _definitely does not_ look fine; his shirt has a rip in the right sleeve and either a stain on the collar, or whoever made it decided to try a particularly artistic bit of colouring; but the servant nods shortly, nervously, making Dean cringe internally, and is about to exit when Sam peers round the door.

“This is the first time Angels and Humans will be meeting in over a _century_ , Dean, the least you can do is look nice.” Sam says in his infuriating matter-of-fact tone.

“Sammy, shut up.” Dean scowls. “And I _know_ it is—you won’t stop mentioning it, for one thing—”

“It’s an honour!” Sam exclaims excitedly, entering the room properly, now. “You should be honoured—”

“Well, I’m not.” Dean says shortly, the words forming bitterly on his tongue. He wrinkles his nose. “I’m not honoured.” He says again—and it’s true—he _isn’t_. He doesn’t want to get married, possibly _ever_ , let alone to someone he hardly knows. And ‘hardly knows’ is putting it pretty fucking generously at this point, in Dean’s humble opinion. “I don’t care what an ‘amazing opportunity’ this is, Sam, I don’t give a shit—I don’t know if I ever want to marry anyone—and I certainly don’t want to marry one of _them_.” He bites, his lip curling slightly, gesturing to an imaginary Angel with disgust. “You can go, now.” He says shortly to the servant at the door, who nods, humbly, and exits, closing the door thickly behind them.

“You don’t need to be rude, you know.” Sam frowns up at Dean, his expression hardening—it only makes Dean smirk down at him.

“What do you mean? I can be as rude to you as I like—you’re my brother.”

“I meant to that servant, Dean.”

“Whatever.” Dean rolls his eyes. “That’s what they’re here for.”

“They’re here for work—not to be spoken down to—”

“—Fine.” Dean admits, rolling his eyes again, exasperatedly—although he feels a guilty coil of shame worm up through him—he’s starting to sound far too much like his father. Sammy is right. “I’ll find him later, and apologise.”

“Good.” Sam nods, seeming a little more appeased. “Now, you’ve still got to get some nicer clothes on than that, Dean, seriously.”

“I’ll wear whatever the fuck I like—”

“Oh no, you won’t,” Comes a confident, firm voice from the door.

Dean jumps as Ellen enters the room.

“Ellen, geez, haven’t you ever heard of knocking?!”

“Oh, please,” Ellen laughs, a little patronisingly, stepping further inside the room and closing the door behind her. “I had a hand in raising you, kid; I don’t need to knock on your door to come in.”

“I’m not a kid.” Dean scowls, his jaw clenching slightly.

“You still are to me.” Ellen smiles, ruffling his hair and walking over to the windows, opening Dean’s curtains widely. Dean blinks hard and glowers at the sunlight now streaming into the room. Ellen laughs at Dean’s face and pulls out a doublet from his wardrobe to replace Dean’s loose—slightly discoloured—white tunic. It’s a dark green; its collar embroidered with gold thread, and looks altogether far too smart for Dean to have any time for. “Come on, wear this!” She says, gesturing to the item. “It’s much nicer than that old, shabby thing you’re wearing now. You look so untidy in that! At least _try_ to make a good impression, Dean!”

“I don’t care how shabby I look, or about what impression I make.” Dean grumbles. “I like this one.” He gestures to the tunic he is wearing. “And actually, I don’t want to make an impression unless it’s a _really_ fucking bad one.”

“Hey, Dean.” Ellen says, her tone changing somewhat from the playful, teasing tone it had been previously to the now very sympathetic, understanding one. Dean relaxes at the sound—it‘s caring and maternal and everything Ellen knows that Dean misses from his mother. “This might not be so bad. And nobility does it all the time—it’s the price you have to pay for being born into this sort of family—”

“John didn’t get an arranged marriage.” Dean grumbles, looking down at the floor.

“I know; but your father was sort of rebelling a bit when he did that. Marriages—in your class, especially, Dean—they’re usually—”

“—For the benefit of the kingdom.” Dean deadpans, interrupting Ellen and filling the rest of the sentence in for her. “I know.”

And he does—he’s heard the phrase countless times over the past few months. People have thrown it around, tossed it over to him whenever they run out of things to say to counter Dean’s objections to the entire affair. It’s meant to be reassuring, a steady reminder for Dean of who he is, of who he’s doing this for; but every time someone says it to him, Dean finds it really quite fucking patronising.

“And this isn’t an arranged marriage, or whatever you want to call it, honey.” Ellen comforts, her tone still soft. She rubs Dean’s shoulder gently and hands him the other robe. Dean takes it reluctantly. “You do still have a choice in this. But at least meet the Angel—for all you know, you might like him.”

Dean shakes his head. He doubts it.

“Angels are cowards.” He says bitterly, as Ellen pulls out some more smart items of clothing for him to wear. Sammy watches as Dean takes them, settling down on the bed. Dean ruffles his hair affectionately as he walks past his younger brother, his heart softening a little.

“What makes you say that?”

“They are.” Dean shrugs, his lip curling harshly, once again. “Why do you think they never involve themselves in our affairs? Why do you think they live way up there, up in the mountains?” Dean asks, gesturing outside the now open window, out to the horizon beyond them. “They’re cowards. They love being worshipped, but they can’t stand protecting what’s right.”

“You’re starting to sound like your father.” Ellen observes unhappily, picking up the clothing Dean had left strewn on his bedroom floor that morning, when he had been deciding on what he could wear for the day that would give off the _worst_ first impression possible.

“Good.” Dean says shortly, sitting down next to his brother on the bed, and pulling off the old shirt.

“You used to love the Angels.” Sam says quietly.

“I did.” Dean admits with little trouble, shrugging slightly. “But I don’t anymore.” He pulls on the doublet Ellen had given him a few moments previously. “They’re cowards.” He repeats. “Self worshipping cowards.”

“Your mother would have begged to differ.” Ellen says, frowning down at Dean’s choice of boots before pulling a newer, cleaner pair out of his wardrobe. “Put these ones on instead. Those are disgusting. Why you haven’t thrown them out yet is a mystery to me.”

Dean sighs and hauls off the boots, not bothering to untie the laces.

“I use them for riding.” He shrugs carelessly. “And anyway,” He continues, “my mother’s dead.” He swallows thickly as he says this, at how blunt his tone seems to be. “And I don’t believe in fairy tales anymore.”

Ellen sighs again. She looks forlorn at Dean’s comment, and it’s upsetting for him to see, if he is honest with himself—but he ignores her disappointed expression, even though it makes him swallow thickly with guilt.

Dean rubs awkwardly at a scar on his right arm, wincing slightly at the pain—it is from where he was hit by an enemy’s sword during battle, and still hurts a little to touch—the wound had been very deep. There had been an awful lot of blood. Ellen had given him an ointment for all his scars; an oil that would apparently help them heal faster, but Dean always struggles with putting it on him, especially the marks left on his back, which stretch at awkward angles behind him on the damaged skin just beyond his reach. Of course, he doesn’t have the heart to ask anyone for help with this.

“You need some more medicine for those?” Ellen asks, gesturing to Dean’s arm.

Dean nods, biting his lip slightly as he rubs awkwardly at the spot again.

“Yeah.” He confirms. “If you could get me some, that’d be great.”

“I can do that.” Ellen nods, smiling gently.

“Thanks, Ellen.”

Ellen was once Sam and Dean’s Nanny—well, she still sort of is—although Dean would hate to admit that out loud. She had one of the closest hands in raising Dean after Mary’s death; and lost her husband in the Demon war soon after Dean’s own mother was lost. Ellen has one daughter—Jo. She’s rather like a sister to Dean; and despite their different social classes, Dean considers her a very close friend. John has always had a habit of complaining about that. John thinks that servants should be servants—nothing else—no matter how large a part they have played in a person’s life. Dean wants to disagree, desperately, and hopes more than anything that when he is king he won’t share his father’s rigid opinions on social casting.  

“What was fighting in a war like, Dean?” Sam asks, looking up at Dean. Dean smiles down at the curious, hazel eyes peering up at him, despite himself.

“Definitely not something for you to take part in, Sammy. You’re too young. We’ve gotta keep you safe.”

Sam rolls his eyes at his brother, pouting slightly, which only makes Dean smirk.

“I’m old enough.” He grumbles, crossing his arms. Dean hears Ellen huff a disbelieving laugh behind him.

“Nope.” Dean grins, shaking his head. “You’re definitely not. I was sixteen, and to be honest, I don’t think I was ready. You’re only thirteen, and a bit of a wimp,” Dean laughs as Sam scowls at this. “—Nah, I’m only kidding Sam—but I’m not kidding when I say that you’re far too young and far too important to me. And I don’t want you to get involved in that shit, anyway. It’s not any fucking good for a person.”

Ellen swipes at Dean for his crude language, but Dean just grins, still more, and ignores her.

He won’t tell Sammy any more than that. He doesn’t want his brother to know about the horrors of warfare—of which there are admittedly a great many—and of which Dean has seen far too great a number. Sometimes Dean will still wake up in the dead of night in a cold sweat, having been plagued with nightmares of the terror of battle.

“I’m nearly fourteen.” Sammy counters, frowning indignantly, but Dean merely shakes his head.

“You’re way too young.” Dean says again, quite protectively, this time. “And you always will be, for that matter.”

Ellen shoots him a quietly grateful look. Dean knows what she thinks about conflict and war, too; and while there was a time where Dean would have disagreed completely, he definitely understands her views now. In fact, he shares them—as much as he no longer believes in the nobility of Angels, he also no longer believes in the nobility of battle.

“Right, Dean, let me take a look at you.” Ellen says, stepping in front of Dean from where he is sitting on the bed. “Stand up.” She instructs. Dean does this, grinning in amusement. “Turn around.” She says. He turns to face Ellen again, who is looking rather thoughtful. “Hm.” Ellen bites her lip. “I guess it’ll have to do.”

Dean laughs and grins smugly at Ellen, who rolls her eyes and pats down his hair a little.

“You’re a prince, Dean—or, nearly one, at least. You shouldn’t look like you were raised in a barn.”

Sam chuckles, and Dean tries to bat him away with his hand but Sammy dodges it and sticks his tongue out in Dean’s direction.

“Right,” Ellen sighs, reprimanding both of them silently with a warning look. “The two of you had better be on your best behaviour today. I hope I don’t need to remind you how important all this is.”

“I know.” Dean sighs, rolling his eyes again. “And please don’t, anyway. It’s all anyone talks about at the moment.”

“That’s because it _is_ important, Dean.” Sammy tries to cut across, but this time, Dean _does_ manage to swat his brother away with his hand.

“Dean,” Ellen says, her voice taking on an eerily reprimanding tone. Dean immediately straightens up, looking back at Ellen. “Please, just try.” She sighs. “Do this for your father—”

“John isn’t happy about the Angels coming either.”

“Yes, but at least he understands what an important day this is. For all of us.” Ellen straightens out Dean’s doublet, tightening its metal fastenings. “This really is for the kingdom’s good, Dean.”

“I wish everyone would stop saying that.” Dean’s voice has turned bitter and tired once more, and he instantly dislikes how childish it sounds.

“Fine, it’s for all of humanity’s benefit, too. And you should be honoured that they chose our kingdom to visit first. To be honest, I think we were all expecting that they’d go to Eofor first; anyway—it is the oldest of our kingdoms, remember?”

“I know.” Dean sighs. Sometimes Ellen acts like he doesn’t have a tutor to teach him all this pointless _‘History of the Nine Kingdoms’_ bullshit. “And the only reason they chose our kingdom was so that they could marry one of their own off.”

“For the good of both the Angels, and the Humans. And I’m sure whichever Angel they picked for the job understands that, too. And anyway, Dean, like we’ve all said countless times before; you still have a choice in this. It might not even happen, you know.”

Dean looks down, swallowing again.

“I sure hope not.”

Dean _really_ doesn’t want to meet any Angels anymore.

“Come on, let’s head down to the Great Hall HHnow. They’ll be here soon, and I’ve got to be ready to greet them at the door as a servant; and you’ve got to be ready to welcome them in there. And you’ll have to be on your best behaviour, Dean.” Ellen reminds again.

“You’ve already said that.” Dean states, flatly.

“Yes, and it’s because I actually want you to do it.” Ellen says, sternly, tugging Dean out of his bedroom.

“Ellen—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Dean. We’re not asking for much. Sam, are you coming?” She calls behind her.

“Yep!” Sam calls back, pushing himself off Dean’s bed and following them out the door, bounding after them in a manner that makes Dean’s lips twitch upwards in an affectionate smile, if only for a moment. It quickly falls when he reminds himself of what he has to do today.

“Are you feeling alright about all of this, Dean?” Ellen asks as they walk down one of the castle’s corridors, Sam running on ahead of them, bouncing excitedly as he does so. ~~~~

“What do you mean?”

“How do you feel?”

“Like shit, Ellen. I’ve already told you—I don’t want to do any of this.”

“Nobody’s making you.”

“You keep saying that, but—”

“You becoming engaged isn’t even the point of the Angels visit.” Ellen sighs as they turn a corner. “This whole thing is a meeting about the war with the Demons—and the Angels becoming involved with it.”

“I know.” Dean rolls his eyes. “And it’s about time, too, by the way—”

“Uh-uh.” Ellen shakes her head sternly, turning to look at Dean as she walks. “Don’t you _dare_ get started on that—your father will be bad enough, but if _you_ get onto that topic—”

“What? It’s true!”

“Dean, the Angels weren’t in any way obliged to help us, you know.”

“I know, but—”

“They must have had their reasons for not involving themselves up until this point, and I’m sure those reasons will be disclosed to us very soon. And if you could keep conflict down to a minimum, that’d be great. This day is really important, Dean.”

“I know it is—” Dean groans as the two of them round another corner to begin walking down a spiral staircase.

“So don’t screw it over.” Ellen sighs. “Listen, your marriage will be in the very distant future. And anyway, it’s just something of a side note for these meetings. It’s optional—just something to improve relations. It might not even happen.”

“It’s not a side note to me.” Dean objects, scowling over to Ellen.

Ellen sighs again.

“I know. I’m sorry. I phrased that badly. But this betrothal is supposed to form an alliance—”

 “It was a tactical move.” Dean says shortly.

“Don’t say it like that, Dean—”

“That’s what it is!”

“You’re making it out to be a very snide and underhand suggestion of theirs, Dean—”

“—because it _is_ one.”

“Don’t interrupt, kid.” Ellen reprimands. “And you know that’s not how Angels do things.”

“How would I?” Dean asks, frowning at Ellen. “How would anyone know _anything_ about what Angels do? Nobody in the Earthly Kingdoms has seen them in more than a hundred years! _Far_ more than a hundred years!”

Ellen exhales in exasperation again. Dean finds it a little condescending.

“And don’t call me kid.” He huffs, glancing down—he can see Ellen smirking at the very obvious and embarrassing pout spreading across his face, and Dean scowls over at her.

“You’ll always be a kid to me, Dean.” She smiles, looking at him with eyes that are an odd combination between soft and patronising; motherly with a hint of still more condescension—it’s the strange mix that makes Dean a little confused about how to react to all of Ellen’s words.

“I’ll be King one day.” Dean frowns. “I’ll be _your_ king—”

“I won’t let you become anyone’s king until you’ve learnt how to drop this pouty teen act.” Ellen laughs as the two of them finally reach the end of another corridor, opening the dark wooden door ahead of them.

Dean snorts a laugh, too, despite himself.

“Another thing, though, Ellen—” Dean starts, looking back at his Nanny— _ex_ -Nanny, Dean reminds himself.—He’s an adult, now. “How long will they be staying? The Angels? How long is this gonna last?”

Ellen shrugs.

“I’m afraid I don’t know, kiddo. I’m not the one to ask—you should probably check with your father, or one of his advisers. Bobby’ll probably know.”

“That’s Sir Robert to you, Ellen.” Dean laughs, as Ellen grins and elbows him playfully.

“Whatever—just do me one favour, Dean, aside from being polite.”

“Just one?” Dean asks.

“Just one.” Ellen confirms. “Try to have fun with this, okay?” She looks at him, sincerely, for a moment, just outside the door to the main hall. The two of them have just entered the entrance hall and will very soon need to part ways. “There was a time when you would have done anything to see an Angel, and now you get to see a whole choir.”

Dean snorts at her joke, despite himself, and Ellen gives something of a triumphant smirk, regardless of her earnest manner.

 “You used to tell me every night how much you wanted to meet an Angel.” She smiles gently, cupping Dean’s cheek with her hand—Dean softens slightly at the incredibly maternal touch. “And now you get your dream. And I can tell you’re still excited for it—no, don’t argue, Dean; I’ve known you your whole life—I just _know_ you’re secretly excited—I know how long you’ve been waiting for this moment. So please don’t beat yourself down for being enthusiastic about seeing them, especially after all this time. Please let yourself enjoy it. Make the most of this.”

Dean sighs and nods, looking down at the ground.

“You’ll do that?” Ellen asks him, apparently genuinely concerned and invested in all of this. “For me?”

“Sure.” Dean nods again.

“Thank you, sweetie.” Ellen beams, pulling Dean in for a tight hug. Dean laughs against her. “Now go on, go—they’ll all be waiting for you!”

“Where’s Sammy?”

“He’s already in there. He ran ahead.”

“Right. Typical” Dean rolls his eyes, waving goodbye to Ellen one last time before opening the doors.

“Good luck!” She hoarse whispers at Dean just before he turns around—Dean grins and enters the main hall.

Everyone is already standing or seated in their allocated positions—a silence has fallen as Dean enters the room, and his face instantly reddens at it—Dean’s throne, beside his father’s, is left awkwardly empty—Dean bites his lip nervously.

He’s very late.

“Dean,” The King stands up, frowning. His tone sounds horribly unpromising. “Where have you been?”

“I was talking to Ellen—”

“Do you even remember what day this is?!” John hisses, frowning down at his son, frustration filling his tone.

“Of course—it’s kind of hard to forget, to be honest, with all of you talking about it all the time—”

John sighs and Dean cuts himself off, biting his lip again. The nobles filling the hall are still watching in silence.

“Just come sit down.” John says, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger. Dean walks over to the thrones stiffly; painfully aware of the fact that everyone’s eyes are now fixed on him.

All his father’s advisors, knights and council members are there; as is Bobby, and several others of John’s closest friends and most trusted allies. Dean sits on his throne, beside his father’s, and glances over to Sammy, who is sitting next to the Queen’s—their mother’s—agonisingly absent throne. Something inside of Dean still splinters whenever he is reminded of how very gone she is from his life. Even after all this time.

“How’re you feeling, Dean?” Bobby asks, leaning in to Dean from where he is standing, behind them.

Dean shrugs stiffly. John glances over to him and sighs, rolling his eyes.

“Just try to be good today, okay Dean? Please?” The King asks, his voice a quiet mumble uttered in Dean’s direction from the corner of his mouth.

“You can talk.” Dean bites, holding back his scowl as he stares ahead.

“Both of you.” Bobby says firmly, before John can reply fiercely to Dean’s unapologetically disrespectful comment. “Both of you need to be on your best behaviour. Today is _really_ important, remember?”

“It wasn’t my idea.” John mutters, looking down.

“It wasn’t mine, either.” Dean adds, feeling the scowl still curling at his features. He hears Bobby huff an exhausted sigh behind him. Suddenly, Dean is reminded of his question; the one that Ellen redirected to either the King or Bobby, and he glances up again. “Hey, do either of you know how long this is going to last?” He asks, his voice still barely above a whisper.

“What do you mean?”

“How long are the Angels going to be staying here? With us? In the Kingdom?”

“I don’t know.” Bobby shrugs, his lips pressing into a thin line as he answers Dean. “Anything up to a month, I suppose. It depends how quickly we manage to come to an agreement.”

Dean nods in understanding. “And why are they coming to _our_ kingdom?” He asks.

“Because we’re the ones who started the war between the Demons and the Humans. It was the Kingdom of Hera—or, more specifically, your father, who declared war thirteen years ago, after the Demon invasion.”

“I did what I _had_ to.” John scowls, still staring ahead of himself.

“And I’m not saying you didn’t—I’m just explaining.” Bobby sighs wearily. “Anyway, since we’re the most involved and invested in the war, I suppose they thought they should speak to us first.”

“Okay.” Dean nods again. That makes sense, he supposes. There is silence for a few moments, before he asks, “Will _he_ be here?”

“Who?” Bobby frowns.

 “The Angel you want me to marry? Will he be here?”

It’s been nearly a year of planning and they _still_ don’t know anything else about Dean’s supposed betrothed.

“If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be marrying _any_ Angel.” John scowls, his jaw clenching somewhat. Dean looks at his father cautiously. “And if I’d had things my way, there wouldn’t even be any Angels visiting today.”

“Well, you don’t have it your way.” Bobby says shortly, frowning at John’s constant irritability. “And Dean, I don’t know. They might be, I guess. Who knows? The Angels will probably want the two of you to meet, so you can figure out if this is something you both want to do—”

“It’s not something I want to do.” Dean cuts across, bluntly, pressing his lips into a thin line. He fucking hates arranged marriages. He hates them with all of his being.

“And like I’ve said a thousand times, Dean, it’s your—”

 _“—‘My decision’_. I know.” Dean rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time that day.

“Good. So stop pouting.” Bobby bats the top of Dean’s head and stands back up.

“I wasn’t—”

“Dean,” John reprimands, hissing his words through his teeth.

“Sorry.” Dean says shortly, staring ahead again. “Where are they, anyway?”

“They’re coming.” Bobby whispers. “Just wait.”

Dean doesn’t want to wait. Nervous anticipation is thrumming eagerly through him in spite of himself and despite all his earlier pretences.

Ellen was right. Dean is really fucking excited about this.

“Guys, we’re gonna meet some Angels!” Sam beams, leaning across to them to be able to be seen. “Can you believe that?”

Dean grins at his younger brother.

“I dunno, Sammy, it _is_ pretty crazy. Maybe you’re dreaming—you should probably pinch yourself to check.”

Sam laughs and rolls his eyes at Dean, turning back to face out, into the hall in front of them. Dean is still laughing and beaming down, over at Sammy, when the doors of the main hall swing open—Dean snaps his gaze back to the space ahead of them, to the end of the hall, where the Angels are now being led in—

And the Angels—

Dean’s breath catches in his throat.

He’s four years old again and his mother is standing over his bed, telling him another story in her lilting, calming voice—Dean’s eyes are catching alight, imagining everything that the Angels are, envisioning all of their ways—he is bringing his mother’s words to life in his head, but now the Angels are actually _in front of him_ , they’re walking into the main hall of Dean’s kingdom, and Dean can see them for the first time, after all these years of _wishing_.

The Angels—

Dean swallows hard.

Holy shit.

—The fucking Angels—

They’re breath taking.


	2. Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there was something that I forgot to cover in my introduction to last chapter that I'll just explain now (if I've already covered it I apologise). When somebody speaks Enochian in one of Castiel's chapters, it'll appear in quotation marks and italics, just so you can tell what language is being spoken/whether or not any non-angels around will be able to understand. If something is written in Enochian in one of Castiel's chapters, it will appear in bold, and italicised. If, in one of Dean's chapters, something is said in Enochian, it'll be bold, italicised and in quotation marks. If something is written in Enochian (I don't know that it will be, but it might come up) in one of Dean's chapters, again, it'll be bold and italicised, like with Castiel.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter, I really appreciated it! Hope you like this one, too.

 

 

Chapter 2—Impressions 

 

 **“But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.”**  

—John Keating, Dead Poets Society 

 

Castiel has never seen Humans before. 

He has heard the Angel teachings of them; has been taught their languages—Edius, the High Tongue of Old Eofor and Hera, Ceol, the assortment of languages of the northern hill tribes, Thracyll and Venet, the common tongues of the Human lands beside the sea; Castiel has heard tales of Humanity’s endless battles and needless violence ever since he was a child. He has spent hours devoured by their literature and stories, has spent his childhood pining after that which he has never known. He has also heard of their constant suffering, caused by needless bloodshed—too often of their own kind, of their own kin. Angels pity Humans. This is what everybody tells Castiel. 

Angels pity Humans for the intensity and rawness of their emotions; for how poorly they restrain themselves, for the way they allow their anger to swallow them like a burning sea, dragging their minds under her scorching depths and sell themselves to her irrational actions; for the way they leave their sentiments to flow so freely from their bodies and souls, so clearly unperturbed by all the possible consequences.  

Angels pity Humans. 

Michael has told Castiel not to say this to anyone at the meeting between the two races, because it might offend them—which Castiel finds oddly amusing—well, surely _anyone_ would become offended if this was said to them of their kind?—But it’s true, he supposes. Humans are famed for their impulsiveness and irrationality, and Angels pity humanity and its ostensible need for constant warfare—war with the Demons was at least moderately understood at the time that it broke out; but with _each other?_ Humans fight over land and resources as much as they fight over matters of justice. The Angels have not involved themselves in conflict for over a century; not since the rebellion of Metatron. After his rebellion, Metatron had been considered a Grigori—a criminal too dangerous for exile and placed in the heart of the dungeons of the mountains. Michael had persuaded Castiel’s father not to have him put to death, although many Angels argue that this would have been a kinder option than the solitude of Metatron’s sentence. 

Castiel’s father had died when Castiel was only a child. Castiel can still recall now of how in his final years of rule, the Angel King did not resemble the fearsome, grand and ancient creature he once was. Michael had been forced to take over many of the High King’s duties after Lucifer left the Kingdom—which had been why Metatron thought it such an ideal time to begin an attempted coup. He had seen what he believed to be a weakness in the rule over Evadne and the other Angel Kingdoms. Castiel thinks that Metatron hadn’t known of the strength his brother possessed, both as a warrior and as a leader. The uprising had been quashed as quickly as it had occurred.  

Castiel’s mother had died when Castiel was a baby. He has no memory of her, although he wishes he did—watching mothers with their children on the street, stroking their child’s wings comfortingly or kissing their child’s forehead has always made something inside of Castiel pang in longing, and he realises that he most longs for that which he never really had. They say that Castiel’s father had never been the same after his wife’s death, that each day a shadow passed further and further over his face and heart; draining him constantly, until eventually he was nothing more than a hollow shell of the king he once was. Castiel knew from his brothers and sister that Castiel’s parents had been dearly in love. This has never been very usual for Angels. Angels are often withheld and formal, cordial with friends and only slightly more informal with those closest to them. Castiel’s family, he supposes, is something of an exception. Angels may love—certainly, they do—but not in the way that Humans do. 

Castiel’s father had become cold to the world after the death of his wife, and after Lucifer’s return and rebellion, something inside of the angel had broken. 

Michael has always said that Castiel’s father had loved Lucifer, dearly. Gabriel jokes that Lucifer had been his favourite, but every time he thinks to bring this up, Michael casts a stony glare over in Gabriel’s direction. Then Gabriel corrects himself, laughing, and says that he forgot that Michael and Lucifer had always held joint first place for their father’s love. Perhaps it is because Michael knew their father when he was a far greater and happier Angel that he is so intent on honouring his memory, on respecting the Angel dearly even beyond his death. Perhaps it is because Michael can remember what their father _used_ to be like before his heart was splintered so tragically that he is so desperate to continue in his subtle worshipping and constant defence of the once Angel King.  

Meanwhile, Castiel isn’t quite sure what his own opinions on his father are. 

The strongest memory that he holds of his father is that he was always sad. _Always_ sad. Dark shadows rested under his eyes that Castiel, as a child, would trace with the tip of his finger when seated on his father’s lap, wondering how it was someone could look as though their soul had been burned out at both ends. 

Here, settled on the King of the Angels, Castiel would brush against the dark circles, a curious frown winding its way across his features. 

 _“Where did you get these from, father?”_ Castiel would ask, tracing the tip of his tiny finger over the honest hints of how hollowed out and icy inside his father truly was.  

 _“Time,_ _Castiel_ _.”_ His father would laugh. His father would laugh and stroke the tips of Castiel’s feathers, his face smiling, but his eyes crying. He would cup Castiel’s small hands in his own, tears falling onto the shadows beneath his eyes. His chest would rumble with both laughter and sobs. _“Time.”_ He would repeat, the ghost of Castiel’s mother dancing on the back of his eyelids. _“And love.”_  

Castiel’s father was never cold towards him when he was alive. Sometimes Castiel feels as though he should have been. If it were not for Castiel, his mother would still be living. She had died after his birth; a few days after Castiel had been born. Castiel had been told that his birth had been very complicated, that Castiel’s mother had taken very ill afterwards. And so he blames himself. As he ought to. 

 _“Don’t worry, little brother.”_ Michael will smile gently down at him, whenever Castiel thinks to express these concerns. But Castiel can see—although Michael is clearly convinced that he can’t—the sad, distant look in his brother’s eyes, whenever he speaks of their mother. _“Childbirth is a dangerous time. For both the baby and the mother.”_  

 _“Is it my fault?”_  

 _“It’s not your fault, little one. Angels die, too._ _We’re just as_ _mortal as_ _the Humans are, only a little sturdier._ _That’s okay. And we’re all ve_ _ry glad that we didn’t lose you_ _in that time, as well as her.”_  

Castiel would look down shyly, at this. It was his fault, it _is_ his fault, but nobody wants to say it. 

Their father had passed on only a short while after Lucifer had returned and attempted a coup. It had been one grief-stricken blow too much for the Angel King’s poor heart. 

Lucifer had left the kingdom of Evadne when he and Michael had been around the same age that Castiel is now. He had asked Michael to come with him at the time, and Michael had decided to stay—knowing nothing of what it was Lucifer truly had in mind for his years of absence—and Lucifer had accused him of betrayal. But there was something else, too, something the two of them had fought about, and nobody is willing to tell Castiel. The details of all of this are unbearably murky. 

All this had been over a century ago. Michael and Lucifer had both been very young at the time. Nobody had heard from Lucifer until the attack—Castiel wonders if each of his family had always secretly known, had suspected that Lucifer hadn’t really gone to seek out a life of independence away from the Heavenly Realms just as he had claimed; but that he had been looking for something so much more. Michael won’t tell him why it is he and his brother had the argument; only that it resulted in Lucifer storming out of the castle, away from the mountains, outraged. 

According to Anna, Lucifer and their father had been in a dispute a few days before he had left, too. She won’t say what it had been about. Castiel hadn’t even been born at the time of the fight—he would come into being almost _centuries_ later—and so he has to take his brother’s and sister’s word for the truth when it comes to matters such as these, however unconvincing all that they say may seem. 

Nobody will tell Castiel more than this. Only that Lucifer had attempted to return, thirteen years ago, and that resolving the dispute between himself and their father had not been the aim of his sudden reappearance. Castiel has been told, by Anna, that their father had still loved Lucifer too much to be able to defeat him, that he had still been too wounded, too splintered, after the impact of their mother’s death—and so the task to oppose Lucifer had fallen upon Michael’s shoulders. 

Michael, who was always obedient to his father, had followed his instruction. 

And Castiel, no matter how many times he asks, is never told anything else. 

Of course, despite the fact that his siblings alongside all those serving and living in Evadne refuse to give him any more details, Castiel is able to work certain things out for himself, however blurred the specifics of these theories may be.  

For example, he knows that Lucifer’s return has something to do with the Demon attack on Hera thirteen years ago. And he wonders if one of the reasons that Angels have refused to involve themselves thus far in the conflict is still because of Lucifer. Castiel doubts that even Michael would have been able to carry out his father’s instruction to destroy his twin brother those decades ago; Michael, for all his talk of self-restraint and discipline, has far too much love in his heart for his family to do anything of the sort—and to his _twin?_ Perhaps Michael had only defeated Lucifer; had only been able to go that far, but never as far as actually _killing_ his twin brother. Michael and Lucifer had once been very close, Castiel has been told. 

Michael is still very new to kingship. He has been an Archangel for as long as Castiel can remember, but now he rules over _all_ Angels, instead of simply those in his own kingdom. Anna was made Archangel just after Lucifer’s rebellion and attempted coup, and now rules over the Kingdom of Tyrzah with some of their relatives who are also Archangels. Gabriel the head of a triumvirate of the Archangels of Theia, and so dwells there; closest to the kingdom of Hera out of all Castiel’s siblings. Gabriel lives the closest to Humanity, and quietly, Castiel could not be more envious.  

Seraphim—those Angels born into royalty, are able to choose if they wish to rule over Kingdoms or not. The state of control they will be allowed into varies depending on which family they are born into—those in the lower ranks of the Angel nobility often become council members, while all of Castiel’s siblings—children of the High King, descendants of the first High Queen of Evadne—have become Archangels. Castiel will be given the choice of whether or not he wishes to become an Archangel, although he is of course expected to say yes when the time comes. Really, it is considered his duty to do so. 

The High King or Queen of the Angels always lives in Evadne, the oldest kingdom in all the earth, so Castiel has been taught. He has lived in this kingdom all his life; he knows all the streets and cracks in the pavingstones of the Great City, can recite in order the colours of the houses and their doors and shutters from the White Gates to the Palace itself, knows what each of the stone steps up to the palace is made of—moonstone, air opal, starstone, glittering onyx, sun stone, deep jade, fire opal, water opal, the pale green earth stone of the forests of Myrrah that looks as though it has a thousand spidery trees trapped inside of it, lapis lazuli, and the pale blue-white stones of Larimar. He can recall each of the spiralling colours of the stained glass window of the Beth-Aim, the Holy Place of the Mother in his city. Inside these walls he has learnt everything of the beginnings and the ends of the world, of the Mother’s love, of the heaven promised long ago to all lost souls, for almost two decades. 

But inside the palace, nothing seemed more fascinating to Castiel than the creatures scattered across the land below the Angels; a people of whom Castiel has learnt is very different to his own kind. 

They live down in the sloping grounds below the mountains, far away from Angel contact—they take, socially, an altogether very different stance to that of the Angels; and Castiel thinks that he dislikes many, if not most of the elements that compose the casting system of Humankind. But, he has decided, he likes their ideas of love.  

Michael has given Castiel poetry written by Human hands and composed by Human minds; he has given him great Human literature to read over the years—sonnets and ballads and plays and piles of books. Castiel drinks Human literature. He drinks each and every word. Humans feel everything brutally and devastatingly—when Castiel reads Angel poetry all that he learns is that Angels hold faith higher than any other thing—when he reads Human poetry he can feel his own heart tearing with the raw and throbbing emotion that Humans feel when they fall, destructively, crushingly, in and out of love with each other. He can hardly help being absorbed by the latter and bored stupid with the former. Castiel is riveted by the idea of two people’s souls being so tangled, so tightly woven together, that it becomes almost impossible to separate them; that to do so would be to tear them apart.  

Angels do not fall in love generally, if at all. Falling in love is weak. Falling in love is a complication, and a needless one at that. Falling in love is Human. 

Marriages in the Angels’ dominion are for the benefit of others—to end petty conflict between families, or to strengthen relations between two households, or resolve troublesome financial situations. Marriages should be for the greater good. Love is not a necessary element in the equation, nor is it a useful one—much like Castiel’s potential marriages to one of these Humans. Castiel knows that the Human he becomes engaged to will resent him. How could they not? 

The Earthly Realm; the place where the Humans dwell, is bubbling with vibrant possibilities for each member of the race—they are able to fall in love as shatteringly as each of those poets Castiel has spent hours poring over had described—except now, whichever one of these Humans has to marry Castiel will _not_ be given that opportunity. They will not be able to tangle their lives with another, to feel their breath catch in their throat whenever their eyes fell upon the one they are going to spend the rest of their life with. There will be no warmth, no fire—only those of regret and bitter resentment. And they will spend their entire existence knowing that all of the beauty and sunlight of true, romantic love is the way that it _could_ have been, if they were able to marry of their own will, by their own choice. 

And it ought to be said that Michael isn’t forcing Castiel into the engagement, by any means—he would never do that to the youngest of his brothers—to the one that Gabriel constantly teases that Michael favours the most. But the weight of Castiel’s duty; as a Sarim—that is, as an Angel prince—to serve his people, means that it is of a crushing importance that he does what was best for both the Angels he will one day rule; and the Humans he will be affecting in the process.  

Castiel has also learnt that Humans are very unlike Angels in appearance. This is only what Castiel has heard, though—he has never had the opportunity to see one for himself—until now, that is: now he is gifted an opportunity to see a whole kingdom of them. But he has heard, from the mouths of other, far older Angels—and has seen in paintings and pictures and carvings and statues, the differences in the Human body from that of the Angels’. 

They have no wings—a thought which Castiel finds very odd yet equally fascinating—the slope of their back faces no sudden rise and stretch of the division of feathered limbs—there is only skin unfolding from their shoulder blades; the indentations of their spine being one of the few details on their backs. Castiel wonders what it must be like, to dance his fingers slowly over the vertebrae of a Human spine, grazing the pad of his thumb over each hollow—to be met by the simple _absence_ of feather and wing. He supposes it is simply another normalcy for Humans; that _Angels_ must be the odd ones in the eyes of Humanity. 

He doesn’t find it disgusting, or even slightly upsetting, to think of the differences of the Human body. There lies, in his heart, a simple element of strange, enthralled fascination—although not a single aspect of this is of the morbid kind—he is merely drawn to the idea of so many _differences_ between humankind and his own race _._  

Angels can speak to each other privately, too—without the use of their mouths, another thing Humans cannot do. They can pierce, softly, the veils of each other’s minds and sit their quietly, calmly—it is a rather useful part of their biology; it means that cities which are located miles apart can still be linked together, that messages can be passed far more swiftly over the distance between. Michael says that if the Angels fought nearly as often as the Humans, that this would be a very useful addition to the methods and movement of warfare. He says that it would probably move war along at a much quicker pace and that any conflict would consequently be ended much faster. But perhaps it is _because_ of the link that Angels can hold with each other that so little conflict occurs in their realm. 

Angels do not use this ability for anything else, really; only ever for communication and formalities such as that. It’s complex to hold the connection to one another for lengths of time further than a brief conversation—even a few words can be mentally draining as it often places a strain on the mind; and so is regarded as needless and frustrating for everyday interaction. It’s only ever used for the formalities of communication by a great many miles, separated by the great mountains that Angels have named home for many thousands of years. 

Humans don’t have this ability to connect so intimately with each other—if intimate is the right word. Truthfully, the touch of another Angel’s mind on another’s is nothing more than cordial and bitingly formal; however personal the _idea_ of action may be. The deed is stiflingly polite and almost discordant. Angels are too withheld, Castiel thinks. The trait that his race seems to most pride themselves on is the characteristic Castiel can find the largest fault in.  

Angels, Castiel has decided, hold too great a love for ceremony. They pride themselves on the proper, on the fact that they often feel so suffocatingly little, that their emotions are so continuously smothered and repressed by their own minds. It is no longer self-control, Castiel thinks; it has grown to a ridiculous point beyond that. They are drowning themselves in an attempt at indifference and restraint. Michael says that this is a weakness, he says what Castiel thinks; that their father always taught Michael and all their siblings to feel fully and wholly, that controlling emotions was of the utmost importance so as to not be swallowed by the illogical, but that smothering them was unnatural, even for Angels. 

Castiel does not understand how one is meant to feel, yet control; and control, yet not smother. Each of those things opposes the others to the point of cancelling one another out. But Michael and Anna seemingly manage it on a daily basis. Anna is intimately tender and loving, and her gestures such as ruffling his hair as she walks by him, patting on his shoulder as she comforts him, speak volumes of the warmth that courses through her at the sight of her youngest brother. She never raises her voice when reprimanding him, never gives more than a slight frown. Michael is a teacher to Castiel; a teacher and a brother and a mother and a father. He is gentle yet reproving, loving yet intimidating. The action of him raising an eyebrow at Castiel is enough to silence the younger Angel all but completely; the warmth of his smile is enough to break Castiel out into helpless laughter. Castiel’s siblings are impossible contradictions. And Castiel doesn’t feel like other Angels seem to. He struggles to control his emotions; sentimentality and passion course thickly through him like fiery magma through his blood, instead of the icy calm of indifference which is continuously pulsed through all other Angels’ frames. Castiel feels fiercely, he struggles to control his temper, struggles to hide his emotions; he cries at the stories he hears, feels torn and affected by them enough to remove himself from contact with others for hours on end as a result. 

Anna tells him that his emotions are not a weakness. She tells him that it is a sign of compassion, of humanity. The only problem with this explanation, the issue which causes a frown to twist at Castiel’s face as his sister brushes aside his concerns, is that humanity is not considered a virtue in Angel culture—quite the opposite. Michael says that perhaps it should be, that perhaps Castiel’s raw emotions are a good thing, that one day they will serve the kingdom; but these words feel empty and do nothing to soothe the aching worry in Castiel’s heart. Humans fight so much because they feel so much—and Castiel seems to feel just as heavily as Humans do. What will he end up doing when his emotions surpass his control? 

Humans also have shorter lifespans to those of the Angels. Michael says that many of them are jealous of Angels, for having the ability to live so long—there is always something of a hint of condescension in his tone whenever he thinks to bring this up; and Castiel wonders why this is—perhaps Michael does not consider a long life to be a necessarily good one. Perhaps he appreciates the thought of a life so much more simple than one which spans the centuries, runs up against millennia—the one that he holds now. Perhaps he enjoys the idea of a far shorter mortality. 

Castiel wonders why it is he chose to live so long, if the Human life span is so appealing to his brother. 

Not many, if none at all, of the Angels choose to live for a shorter, more intimate amount of time. Castiel imagines that each second would seem to be worth so much more, when one’s life has been depreciated by so much—but perhaps many Angels enjoy the languid pace they are able to live life at. Humans are said to bubble with anticipation and brim with movement at the hectic everyday affairs which so constantly fill their lives—it sounds exhausting, being so constantly _busy,_ afraid of time, afraid of it running out—and yet, living a lifetime for _generations_ of Humans sounds equally so. Castiel doesn’t know what he will decide when he is faced with the choice.  

Angels are given a choice, when they were twenty-one, of whether they wish to continue living a far less mortal life, or if they would prefer to be far more finite in their lifespan. To choose the more mortal life, as Angels put it, is to _‘fall from grace’._ The phrase makes Castiel frown. It is yet another way in which his kind pity Humans. But despite choosing _not_ to ‘fall’, Angels can by no means live forever—they are not in any way immortal. Their lives _do_ span many centuries; often up to thousands of years. Castiel isn’t sure if this is something he wants. After watching the void of loneliness swallow his father for all those years; he rather dislikes the idea of experiencing so much, for so long. He imagines it to be exhausting—but then, it is the reality that he will probably have to end up facing. The thought is strangely daunting for Castiel. 

 _“Little brother, are you feeling alright?”_ Michael asks, turning to Castiel. He has been lost in conversation with one of his advisers for what feels like the past six hours, and has only just flitted his eyes over to his younger brother, to notice him looking stagnantly distant. Castiel can feel the worried lines twisting at his face, and he makes an effort to smother them before flicking his eyes back up to his brother. 

 _“I’m fine, thank you, Michael.”_ Castiel nods. He looks away again, and feels the gentle touch of his brother’s hand on the curve of his wing. He wants to pull away, his mind knotting with worry, but he doesn’t. He glances outside the window of the chariot, and the soft, emerald green land rolling beside them, and wonders again why it is that his brother thought it prudent not to _fly_ to the Human kingdom.  

Small houses litter the landscape every now and then; some made of a sandy coloured stone with straw roofs, others simpler still, composed almost entirely of wood. Zachariah made a joke before they departed for the Earthly Realms of the mud huts that Humans lived in, but Michael fixed the adviser with the iciest glare Castiel has ever seen, and the Council-Member quickly silenced himself.  

They have passed towns where the homes seem more lavish than simple stone or wood, the outside plastered white with dark wood, the stones a pale grey. A few of the Humans now look out of their homes at the hoard of passing chariots; perhaps because they know what this day means, perhaps because it is not especially usual for them to see so many horses and wheelhouses making their way along their simple, hardly paved roads. Castiel strains his neck to gain a better view of them; desperate to see the Humans a little more up close. All he can make out from where he sits is the _absence_ of their wings; which is of course not especially useful. 

They have stopped only twice on their journey so far. After flying to the foot of the mountains, where their chariots and wheelhouses awaited them, they made their way from the borders of the kingdom of Theia, down through the land of the Heran Hill and Mountain tribes and into the plains and valleys winding with rivers of the land below. Castiel is exhausted by travel, and, though he can hardly believe it, bored of staring out of the window at the passing evidences of Human civilisation. 

 _“You’re not very good at lying, little Prince.”_ Gabriel observes, laughing quietly next to him. Castiel fixes his older brother with the stoniest glare he can muster. 

 _“I’m not little.”_ He frowns. He hates himself for how petulant and indignant these words sound as they fall from his lips. To his credit, Gabriel chooses not to tease him for this, and instead goads him over something else. 

 _“You’re fine with_ Michael _calling you little—”_  

 _“What’s wrong,_ _Castiel_ _?”_ Michael interrupts, glancing rather pointedly at Gabriel for a brief moment. 

 _“Nothing.”_ Castiel mumbles. He resumes his staring out of the window, ignoring Gabriel’s snort next to him. 

 _“Remember that you don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to.”_ Michael says gently, as if reading Castiel’s mind. The hand, flecked with scars from battle, returns to Castiel’s wing in an attempt at comfort. 

 _“Although I don’t get why it’s such an issue.”_ Gabriel shrugs. The sunlight streaming through the chariot’s window sets the flecks of gold in his eyes on fire. _“This is exactly the same as any other Angel marriage you’d have; except this one is with a Human._ _You shou_ _ld be delighted—you_ love _Humans._ _”_  

 _“Exactly.”_ Castiel says, shortly. 

 _“Exactly, what?”_ Gabriel frowns. 

 _“The Human who you want me to marry—they’ll have spent their whole lives expecting to fall in love with someone slowly, properly, to marry someone who means the world to them—and they got landed into this_ _…_ deal… _to aid the peace agreement.”_  

 _“Oh, he’s talking about_ _love_ _again.”_ Gabriel laughs. His eyes spark still more with amusement. Castiel scowls over to his brother. _“Listen,_ _Castiel_ _, you’re going to be marrying someone born into royalty—someone who knows that each one of their actions is either for the benefit or disadvantage of their kingdom. They’ll understand that this is a sacrifice they have to make.”_  

 _“So you’re saying that I should, too?”_  

 _“Well, like Michael said, you still get a choice in this. But yes, ideally, you should understand that this is for the benefit of both Angel and Humankind.”_ Gabriel explains, his tone taking on a far softer element. 

 _“But I don’t want to.”_ Castiel says shortly, his voice quiet and small. Again, he hates how petulant and childish he comes across. 

 _“And you don’t have to.”_ Gabriel shrugs. 

Castiel sighs and looks down again.  

Yes, he does. 

 _“Where’s Anna?”_ He asks, looking up at Michael after a brief quiet. _“Why did she leave our carriage?”_  

The adviser in the carriage with them looks out of the window now, rather awkwardly. Castiel bites his lip slightly as the Angel’s gleaming wings bristle faintly. 

 _“She’s in another_ _chariot, now, with her own advisers. Matters in_ _Tyrzah_ _needed to be discussed_ _.”_ Michael says simply. _“We’ll see her again when we get there.”_  

 _“Remind me again where ‘there’ is?”_ Gabriel asks, smirking somewhat as he speaks. Gabriel does this a lot. He seems constantly bemused by his surroundings, and Castiel, who rarely finds himself smiling, thinks it quite an odd quirk. 

 _“_ _Castle_ _Hera, Gabriel.”_ Michael sighs. Castiel understands his frustration; sometimes it seems as though their brother is deliberately infuriating. _“I think I’ve already had to mention that to you more than enough times.”_ How Gabriel manages to rule his kingdom as well as he does is beyond Castiel—Gabriel’s personality combined with the position of power that he has been placed in _should_ add up to the kingdom of Theia being set up in flames.  

Gabriel grins and shrugs. 

 _“We should probably practice speaking in the native tongue.”_ He laughs. 

“You _should practice.”_ Castiel frowns. _“I can speak the language of the Humans without any difficulty.”_  

 _“Good for you.”_ Gabriel smiles. Castiel senses that he is being sarcastic, and squints over to his brother. Michael chooses to ignore both of them, apparently. 

 _“We’ll be_ _arriving soon.”_ He states, his tone simple and fairly emotionless. 

 _“Why did we have to travel from the mountains by carriage, Michael?”_ Gabriel asks, frowning somewhat as he speaks—Castiel finds it something of a relief from his constant grinning and smirking. 

 _“Because there are so many of us.”_ Michael shrugs. _“And we have so many belongings to take with us. The stay is looking to be a fairly long one, after all.”_  

 _“How long are we staying for?”_ Castiel asks, looking back to his oldest brother. 

 _“A few weeks, I suppose. It’s difficult to say.”_  

 _“And who’s going to be ruling over the kingdoms, while you’re gone?”_ Castiel asks.

The lines forming Michael’s face harden at this. Castiel dislikes it when they do that—he dislikes every time he has to find his brother threatening, every time his brother takes off the calm and still exterior to reveal the rigid outlines of a King. 

Michael has not been King of all the Angels for very long—some would consider him inexperienced, and if it had not been for the precision and wisdom of his rule thus far, the opinion would almost certainly be a universal one amongst the Angels. Castiel has been trained in combat by Michael, has seen his hard meticulousness as a warrior and a fighter, has seen how lethal and terrifying his brother can truly be. And he dislikes knowing this. He dislikes knowing that the calm brother, who smiles at Castiel like the sun sets in his eyes, is also the Angel who can silence an army with a single glare.  

Michael became King after the death of their father; and something changed in his heart. Anna says such rule and responsibility often do just this to a person. Castiel prays it won’t happen to him, too. Michael had technically been ruling and carrying out many of the responsibilities of a King for numerous years before that; while their father was ill with grief from Lucifer’s betrayal, from their mother’s death. After each of these events, their father’s heart only became more and more numb. Michael is hardening in his rule, too. Castiel has seen the change happening; the hard lines  already formed on his face, the ever growing sturdiness and rigidness of Michael’s heart, the withdrawnness that comes with authority. 

 _“Raphael.”_ Michael answers, and Castiel thinks he sees something in his brother’s jaw twitch faintly. 

 _“Raphael?”_ Gabriel repeats, frowning. _“Are you sure that’s a wise move, brother?”_  

Michael looks away. 

 _“Frankly,_ _Garbriel_ _, I had very few other options. And bringing Raphael here, to Hera, would have been even more of a poor decision, on my part. You know what he thinks of the Humans.”_  

 _“Like Lucifer.”_ Gabriel hums. Michael’s eyes snap up to his brother’s face. His demeanour changes, as it does every time his twin brother’s name is mentioned. 

 _“What do you mean?”_  

 _“He is like Lucifer.”_ Gabriel explains, rather ineffectively. 

 _“In regards to his sentiments towards the Humans?”_  

 _“_ _Yes.”_ Gabriel nods once. _“_ _It’s something we should watch out for.”_  

Michael hums in thoughtful agreement, his frame taught and awkward for a moment, before receding back into itself. 

 _“But I doubt his views are so severe.”_  

 _“Still.”_ Gabriel shrugs. _“Severity is subjective. Views are open to change—over time and through environment. Such uncontrolled power may not be good for him, with you, Anna and I in the lands below him.”_  

 _“We have others stationed_ _in Evadne_ _, too. He is not the only one watching over our Kingdoms.”_  

 _“Who else is there?”_ Gabriel asks, leaning slightly towards Michael as he speaks. Worry is twisting at his face, and it is one of the few times that Castiel is allowed to see him act as a true leader; let alone a serious one. 

 _“Balthazar.”_ Michael replies. Gabriel relaxes a little, at this. _“_ _Jael._ _Hofniel_ _and Naomi in Theia and_ _Tyrzah_ _. And Hester_ _in Evadne_ _.”_  

 _“_ _Jael the_ ** _Ne El?_** _The Holy One and_ _Prophet of the Mother?”_  

 _“_ _Yes—Jael is an honourable servant of both God and of our people. And we needed someone of the faith to oversee Raphael.”_  

 _“_ _Okay_ _…_ _”_ Gabriel nods, looking only slightly more appeased. _“And advisers will be staying there, too?”_  

 _“Some, yes.”_ Michael nods. The adviser sat next to him still chooses to remain silent. _“Most, in fact.”_  

 _“And what agreements are you hoping to come to, after all of this?”_ Gabriel asks. 

 _“Ones that benefit our people.”_ Michael shrugs. _“And, hopefully, the Humans, also.”_  

 _“Could you bear to be a little_ _more precise?”_ Gabriel chortles.  

 _“We may have to get involved_ _in_ _the war between Hera and the Demons.”_  

Gabriel’s face turns sombre at his brother’s answer. 

 _“You know what that means—”_  

 _“Yes, Gabriel, I know what it means.”_  

 _“Are you sure you want to—”_  

 _“Would I be saying any of this if I wasn’t sure?”_  

 _“Michael—”_  

 _“Gabriel.”_ Michael says, firmly. His eyes dart pointedly over to Castiel, then back to Gabriel. He doesn’t make any effort to make this gesture subtle, and Castiel resents it immediately. _“Another time.”_  

Gabriel nods and sits back slightly. Castiel has gone as quiet as the Angel adviser sitting next to his oldest brother. 

Castiel is used to this kind of guarded talk in his presence. 

His siblings often leave him out of conversations, convinced that he is too young to listen in, convinced that whatever he hears will hurt him. Castiel finds it patronising but he tries to understand, however difficult it may be. 

 _“Who is it, exactly? Who you would like me to be marrying?”_ Castiel asks—partly to change the subject, and partly because he has been wondering this for the past hour or so. 

 _“His name is Dean.”_ Michael says. _“Dean Winchester. He is the son of John Winchester, the King of Hera.”_  

 _“How old is he?”_ Castiel asks, cautiously. 

 _“He’s your age. A few months younger, actually.”_  

Castiel nods. 

 _“He won’t want to marry me.”_ He says, his voice grating against his throat. 

 _“What makes you say that?”_  

 _“Why_ would _he want to?”_  

 _“For the good of his Kingdom.”_  

Castiel makes an unconvinced noise at the back of his throat and presses his head against the frame of the chariot frustratedly.  There is a long pause in conversation, and he feels his brothers’ eyes boring into the side of his head, but refuses to acknowledge them for several minutes, resolving instead to drink in the sights of the surrounding landscape. It is odd for Castiel to see terrain that is so flat. He has lived his entire life on land composed of sharp declines and angles; horizons shrouded by still more mountains beyond his home. 

 _“What’s he like?”_ Castiel asks after what feels like an age of the discordant silence. 

Michael, who has looked away and out of his own window during the lull in conversation, now looks back over to his brother. 

 _“He has one younger sibling, whose name is Samuel, although I believe he goes by the name Sam._ _That’s how he’s named in all of Sir Robert’s letters, at least._ _”_  

 _“Anything else?”_  

 _“His mother was killed in the Demon attack on Hera thirteen years ago.”_ Michael says, slightly awkwardly. _“I am told that John became rather withdrawn, after that.”_  

 _“Like our father did.”_  

 _“Yes.”_ Michael coughs. _“It’s understandable—”_ Gabriel pointedly rolls his eyes as their brother speaks. Michael sighs and his wings bristle uncomfortably, choosing to stop there. _“I have also heard that he bears a lot of grudges against Angels for not intervening—although we had no idea that the attack was going to happen_ _, in our_ _defence_ _—and that he’s also still angry that we didn’t involve ourselves in the war.”_  

 _“_ _Until_ _now.”_  

 _“Yes, until now.”_ Michael nods, his voice turning soft and thoughtful. 

 _“So it’s probably best if we’re cautious around that issue.”_ Gabriel interjects. _“We don’t want to offend anyone.”_  

Castiel finds it somewhat ironic that those words came out of _Gabriel’s_ mouth. 

 _“_ Should _we have helped the Humans in the war?”_ Castiel asks, his face lining with a cautious worry. 

 _“We had our own issues at the time.”_ Michael says shortly. 

 _“Like what?”_ Castiel presses. 

 _“It doesn’t matter,_ _Castiel_ _.”_  

 _“If we didn’t_ _become_ _involved—”_  

 _“_ _Castiel_ _.”_ Michael cuts Castiel off, firmly. Castiel sits back and bites his lip, looking down. There is another pause. _“We weren’t obliged to help them.”_ Michael says, gently this time. 

 _“But you told me that our ancestors_ promised _to help humanity when—”_  

 _“When it_ needed _help.”_ Michael interrupts. _“King John wanted revenge. Not help. We were not in any way obliged to help them.”_  

 _“So why are we helping them now?”_  

 _“I’m afraid I can’t answer that,_ _Castiel_ _.”_  

 _“Because you don’t know?”_  

 _“I’m_ King, _little brother, of course I know.”_  

 _“So why can’t you tell me?”_  

 _“_ _Castiel_ _.”_ The hard edge returns to Michael’s voice again. 

Castiel looks back down. Gabriel is looking out of the window awkwardly too, now. Michael’s gaze lingers on Castiel’s face for only a moment, before he sighs and shifts his line of vision away. 

 _“One day, I will tell you everything.”_ Michael reassures, looking at the trees rolling past the window. _“But now is a little too soon.”_  

 _“I’m ready to know, Michael_ _._ _I’m not a child anymore—”_  

 _“_ _Castiel_ _.”_  

Another grating silence. Castiel resolves to look at the trees flitting by outside of the chariot, too. He loathes being left out of things so often. 

 _“What else can you tell me about the person I’m to be engaged to? This Dean?”_ He asks. 

 _“I don’t know.”_ Michael shrugs. _“He was in the Human war over land_ _divisions_ _with the Kingdom of Dione, around a year ago.”_  

 _“He was in a_ war?”  

 _“Yes.”_ Michael nods. 

 _“He’s probably quite damaged_ _, in that case_ _.”_ Gabriel mutters, but Michael glares at him. _“You’re marrying our brother off to a broken prince?”_  

 _“He w_ _ould have been trained in combat_ _for years, much like you have been,_ _Castiel_ _.”_ Michael speaks plainly, ignoring Gabriel. _“He would’ve known what he was getting into.”_  

Castiel nods. 

Michael turns to the adviser seated next to him and begins discussing matters of politics once more. Castiel loses himself in his own thoughts, burning away another few minutes, before another pressing one crosses his mind. 

 _“Are Humans taught Enochian, just as we are taught their language_ _s_ _?”_ He asks. 

Michael turns to him, another gentle smile lacing his features. 

 _“No,_ _Castiel_ _, I very much doubt it.”_  

 _“Why is that?”_  

 _“Because they don’t feel the need, I suppose. Whenever Angels have communicated with Humans in the past, it has always been in their_ _own_ _language_ _s_ _.”_  

 _“Why is that?”_ Castiel asks again. He hears Gabriel chuckle softly next to him, and glowers at the sound. 

 _“I don’t know.”_ Michael laughs, gently. _“It’s just the way things are,_ _Castiel_ _.”_  

 _“Perhaps you could teach one of them Enochian.”_  

 _“Don’t mock me, Gabriel.”_ Castiel bites. 

 _“I’m not!”_ Gabriel grins. _“You’re marrying one of them, after all—you could probably teach your Dean a few words!”_  

 _“Gabriel, stop goading our little brother.”_ Michael sighs, before Castiel can respond to his brother’s teasing properly. _“And remember, he still has a choice. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”_ He reminds, turning back to Castiel. 

 _“Yes, but I’m still_ obligated _to say yes.”_ Castiel mumbles. Neither of his brothers respond. They know Castiel is right. 

Castiel wonders what the Humans will be like. He wonders what _Dean_ will be like. He has spent his entire lifetime hearing tales of Humanity, hearing his relatives and teachers explain to him the differences between Angels and Humans; both socially and physically. He’s never before had the opportunity to meet one of them and find out for himself. And now he wants to find out _everything._ Excitement courses thickly through him, as does a dense, heavy anxiety. It gnaws at his nerves, making him swallow thickly often and worry at his lip. It worms its way up his throat and knots itself over his heart and around his tongue. 

Prince Dean of Hera will resent him. The forest to one side of the carriage begins to thin out a little, the dense emerald of evergreen trees, and the lighter shades of oaks, pines and yews grows more subtle, not quite sparse but certainly not the mess of green and brown, inseparable from itself, that it had been.

 _“Look,_ _Castiel_ _, you can see the castle!”_ Gabriel grins, slightly childishly—which amuses Castiel endlessly and drags him away from his worrying thoughts for but a brief moment—Gabriel points out of the window to a massive, shadowy building in the distance, encompassed by walls and fortifications. 

Castiel finds it odd. 

There are very few such defences in Angel Kingdoms. 

He looks out at the citadel, regarding it slowly. The Great Castle of Hera; so named after the kingdom, is of mammoth proportions, and yet it is not beautiful. Great, yes, but not elegant. 

Castiel swallows thickly. 

Its walls are the same dull grey as the stony faces of the mountains in Castiel’s home. Somehow they manage to hold none of the same warmth and familiarity.

He watches as the castle draws nearer and nearer. Already he feels exhausted from travel; but his heart is practically in his throat. Castiel wishes that this wasn’t such a huge affair. He wishes he and his family didn’t have to travel by carriage. He wishes his brother hadn’t insisted on bringing council members and servants to the Kingdom of Hera, too.  

 _“Why Hera, Michael?”_ Gabriel asks, turning back to his brother. 

The castle is looming in the distance ahead of them, now. 

Michael glances over to Castiel first, then to Gabriel before answering. 

 _“It seemed appropriate.”_ He shrugs lightly. Castiel isn’t sure that this is the whole truth of the matter. _“Hera is the Kingdom_ _which_ _started the war against the Demons, they were the Kingdom attacked_ _by said Demons_ _thirteen years ago. Dean Winchester lives in Hera._ _It all seemed rather fitting, if fitting is the right word._ _”_  

 _“And why Dean Winchester?”_  

 _“He was the only Prince_ _appropriate for our brother_ _.”_  

 _“He hasn’t been crowned yet, you know.”_ Gabriel laughs. 

 _“Yes, but he will be_ _._ _”_ Michael rolls his eyes, looking away, but Castiel sees a rare smile twitching at his brother’s lips. 

 _“What do you mean, he was the only Prince who_ _fit?”_  

 _“He’s the same age as you.”_ Michael replies shortly, shrugging again. 

 _“Oh.”_ Castiel nods, although he senses that there is something more to the matter, as always. _“Is that all you meant?”_  

 _“Yes.”_ Michael confirms. 

Castiel is able to perceive still that his brother is lying to him, or at least not telling the whole truth, but he doesn’t say anything more. 

 _“Have you ever met Humans before?”_ He asks his brother. 

He knows that Angels have not spoken to Humans in centuries, but perhaps his brother was around when they interacted last. 

 _“A long time ago, yes.”_ Michael smiles softly at his youngest brother. _“Although perhaps not as long ago as it feels.”_  

 _“What was it like? What were_ they _like?”_  

 _“Worthy of more respect than most Angel nobility would speak of them with.”_ Michael replies. _“And, while we’re on the subject; I would appreciate it greatly if the two of you could be as courteous as possible.”_ Michael says firmly, staring in particular at Gabriel. 

 _“When would we dream of being anything else?”_ Gabriel asks, grinning widely. Michael sighs and looks back at Castiel. Castiel considers for a moment that however out of place he is in their family, Gabriel is just as odd—if not in passion and a general lack of self-control, then in his apparent need to treat everything under the sun as if it were a joke, when most, if not all other Angels seem to lack any sense of humour. 

 _“What else_ _are_ _the Humans like?”_ Castiel enquires. _“_ _Do_ _they feel as intensely as everyone says they do?”_  

 _“Yes, I suppose.”_ Michael quirks another slight smile. It looks almost affectionate, and perhaps a little bit sad. 

The adviser seated next to Castiel’s oldest brother smirks, now. 

 _“What’s wrong with that?”_ Castiel frowns over to the Angel. 

 _“Nothing is ‘wrong’ with it.”_ The Angel shrugs. _“Apart from, perhaps, it is a mark of how innocent Humans truly are.”_  

 _“What does that mean?”_  

 _“It means that we can only hope that one day, they will grow out of the habit of feeling so passionately. It makes them rather vulnerable, and a lot further behind both Angels and Demons_ _… Though perhaps you may not understand why._ _”_  

Castiel looks down, something inside of his heart tearing limply. 

Gabriel seems to sense his distress, and furthermore, understands the root of it, because he turns to the Angel and frowns, his manner changing suddenly. 

 _“Demons feel passionately, too_ _,_ _Naya’il_ _.”_ He counters, speaking almost harshly to the adviser. _“Except, as far as I can tell, they only feel anger. At least Humans feel positive emotions, as well as their negative ones.”_  

The Angel—Naya’il—shrugs and looks out of his window. 

 _“And if you ask me, anything is better than pride.”_ Gabriel continues, rather pointedly. The adviser’s eyes brush back to Gabriel’s face, and a frown flickers across his features.  

 _“—Which is why we will_ all _have to behave as humbly as possible.”_ Michael interrupts purposefully. _“We will be_ _guests_ _in the Humans’ household, and we should conduct ourselves as such. Which means that there is no room for arrogance or any air of superiority.”_  

The adviser looks down, humbled. 

Castiel fiddles with his own hands, twisting his fingers over each other anxiously to pass the time. 

He looks up again when the carriage travels over the drawbridge, and into the castle village. 

 _“People are staring.”_ Castiel observes. 

 _“I’d expect them to.”_ Gabriel chuckles. _“They’ve never seen Angels_ _before, after all.”_  

 _“Are we the first to arrive?”_  

 _“We should be.”_ Michael nods. 

 _“Where is Anna?”_  

 _“She’ll be in the carriage behind us.”_  

They are making their way through the lower levels of the city, now, down the wide road onto which narrower, more clustered paths and alleys and streets are connected. Castiel sees more Humans peering shyly at them—he catches a glance of a small child, probably not much over two years of age, sat in his mother’s arms as he gazes wide-eyed through Castiel’s window and at Castiel. Castiel’s lips twitch upwards and he gives a soft wave at the child. The boy smiles shyly, then widely and waves back, before burying his face in his mother’s shoulder. Castiel can’t help but beam—this is his first interaction with a Human, he thinks to himself, and already he is endeared beyond belief. 

He sees still more Humans crowded around little shop fronts, all dressed in muted colours of beige and brown and grey, a skittering of navy here and there—the clearly richer merchants wear more maroons and violets, still somehow dull by comparison of most Angel attire; Castiel sees what he believes to be a blacksmiths, with dull metal tools hung up by the windows and a horseshoe of rusted iron hung from the front door, which is of a faint, grainy red colour. Some of these Humans appear clearly foreign, from the Southern Isles or descendants of those from Dione; they have darker skin and hair and eyes and wear different clothing to those obviously in their homeland—long, flowing tunics instead of doublets, shirts and hose. An older human is making her way from a stand covered in food of bright yellows and oranges and greens, carrying a basket laden with it in her hands.  Castiel sees a yellow food in there that he hardly recognises, a cutting of folded silk sits in her basket also, as do dozens of what Castiel supposes are the season’s first fruits. A younger man offers to help her with it. Castiel’s heart basks inside his chest. 

The buildings are all mismatched and totally different—some are the grey of the castle and its walls; clearly built around the time castle Hera was—others are tall and wooden and uneven, looking ready to fall onto the street below but somehow still remaining upright. Other buildings have roofs of thatched straw, others—those owned by clearly more wealthy people—have balconies and brightly painted doors and shutters. Some have flowers spilling out of windowsills; and Castiel spots an apothecary with medicinal herbs clustered on the windowsill and a bundle of lavender tied above the door. Zerachiel, one of the healers in Castiel’s home and one who has served Castiel’s family for as long as he can remember, carries hyssop with him everywhere he goes and has it tied in wreaths everywhere he works and lives. He has always told Castiel of its sacred and purifying properties—Castiel wonders if lavender or any other plants in Hera are sacred to the Humans that live here. 

Everywhere there is talking and noise and bustling; Castiel can recognise the Heran dialect of Edian, which is the language of Eofor and Hera and much of Corinna, and Castiel can hear music pouring out of a tavern and the happy shouts of drunken men and women, and he breaks out into a beam which he cannot seem to supress, because already he thinks he is in love with humanity. 

The crowded streets are brimming with life; saturated with it, and the sound of lutes and lyres can still be heard as their chariot continues to roll along the cobbled narrow streets. The smell of bread, wheat and barley, of bitter rotting fruits and the sweet scent of horses and straw fills the air; decorations are hung up across each road, from house to house, to celebrate the Angel’s arrival, flags bearing the crests of Hera and of House Winchester are fixed at every corner. 

The Angels are attracting more and more attention, now; Castiel can hear the excited murmuring of words like _Angels_ and _wings_ and _magic;_ and despite everything else, he thinks he may actually enjoy his time in Hera. 

 _“How did you organise all of this, Michael?”_  

 _“With great difficultly.”_  

Gabriel rolls his eyes and snorts at his brother’s rare attempt at a humorous comment. 

 _“King John—well, really, it was his adviser,_ _Sir_ _Robert—He and I_ _communicated through letters for several months befo_ _re all of this was given the King of Hera’s approval_ _.”_ Michael explains. _“It was needlessly complicated. While we’re here I’d also like to discuss a clearer route of communication.”_  

The carriage has grinded to a halt now, and Castiel looks up and outside, and sees that they have drawn to a standstill in a rather large, paved courtyard. Carriages behind them are drawing up, too, and the Angel who had been driving their own chariot steps down onto the uneven pale grey paving stones and opens the door of the carriage for them. Michael steps out first, dipping his head in the bright sunlight. 

When out in the courtyard, Castiel sees his sister exiting her carriage, also. She beams over to him, waving. The sun on her hair and wings gives the effect of them being on fire as she approaches Castiel. 

 _“Hello, little brother.”_ She greets, ruffling Castiel’s hair. _“How was your journey?_ _I’m sorry I couldn’t remain with you for all of it._ _”_  

 _“It was_ _bearable_ _, I suppose_ _.”_ Castiel shrugs. 

They had got into the carriages at the bottom of the Angel’s mountains, at the border of the Heavenly Realms. Angels rarely, if ever, travel by animals, and so it is not massively often that Castiel sees a horse, let alone a whole mass of them ready to pull the many wheelhouses to the Human Kingdom. 

 _“How was Gabriel?”_ Anna asks, a knowing smile flitting across her features. 

 _“_ _He was…Gabriel. And Gabriel is as he is_ _.”_  

 _“He wasn’t too annoying?”_  

 _“No.”_ Castiel finds himself laughing. Anna smiles and ruffles Castiel’s hair softly; a gesture which he would find incredibly patronising, if it wasn’t for the fact that his life had been so void of such maternal touches as these. As it is, he drinks them up. 

Servants dressed in the bright green colours of the ruling family of Hera have opened the doors to the palace, now, and Castiel watches as the great doors slide, huge and mahogany, inwards, back into the castle. The doors at Angel palaces open outwards. Castiel notes the differences with mild curiosity. 

A young man with dark hair, and the Kingdom of Hera’s crest across his tunic, comes out and bows low to Michael. Michael nods his head to the servant, low, as a sign of respect, and the young man looks slightly taken aback—Castiel wonders if he is used to this kind of treatment. Michael has always taught Castiel to treat each servant in their Kingdom with as much honour and respect as he would anyone else—but he has been told that Humans treat their servants somewhat differently. 

“Your Majesty.” The Human says, in his own tongue. The words of this language sound different on the lips of Humans—Castiel has been taught their languages since he was a young child, and yet each letter is formed differently on the mouths of Angels—when this Human speaks, the words roll off his tongue and form quickly and unevenly at the back of his throat, so different from the fluid and often lilting speech of the Angels. Castiel finds all of it fascinating.  

Michael bows his head again. 

“The King of Hera has instructed me to tell you what an honour it is to have you here. His Majesty and his council are waiting to greet and welcome you in the main hall. You will be shown through in just a moment, when more of your court has assembled. After this, you will be shown to your rooms—we pray you find them acceptable for your stay. Tonight, the King is holding a great many celebrations of your arrival. We hope you find these, too, worthy of your presence” 

The words seem almost forced out of the servants mouth. He is looking at Michael with terrified reverence, and Castiel still finds this strange, too. Michael has always taught him that royalty should never make their servants afraid of those they serve. 

“Thank you.” Michael smiles. “It is an honour to be here, and I am sure we will find our lodgings perfect.” 

The servant still looks a little nervous, although now his expression is mainly that of surprise. He smiles and bows his head as the last of the carriages are drawn in by horses. There are around thirty Angels, in total; some of whom are servants and footmen, others are advisers and nobility, and others still are Archangels. Castiel’s siblings are among these.  

Castiel spots the Angel Samandriel stepping down into the stony courtyard. Samandriel spots him, too, and smiles, nodding his head respectfully in Castiel’s direction. Castiel returns the action. Samandriel is a servant, a Malakim in a far lower class than Castiel—but somehow the Angel manages to be one of Castiel’s only and closest friends. 

And despite their differences, each cast of Angels has a duty; just as Castiel has his duty, which is why it is of paramount importance that he does what is considered best for his Kingdom—which is why he really _doesn’t_ have much of a choice in becoming engaged to one of these Humans. 

With this thought, his heart twists slightly in an odd nervous reaction. What will Prince Dean be like? Will he even be nice? With all that Castiel has heard of the Human classes and the way they separate themselves out, Castiel can imagine that as the son of the King, Dean thinks rather highly of himself. Really, Dean could be every bit as spoiled and pompous and _horrible_ as the cruel Human Princes in the stories Castiel has read, the princes who steal the lovers of better and more honourable men.  

And, on top of all of this, Dean will also have every right to hate Castiel. Which means that their relationship— _whatever_ it would or could be, would also most likely be quite a gloomy one. 

Yet, Castiel thinks, allowing hope to spark lightly inside of him, perhaps Dean has a very kind heart. Perhaps Castiel will find himself enjoying the Human’s company; liking him—maybe _loving_ him, as the Humans in the stories Castiel has read fall in love. Perhaps one day the Human may grow to love _him—_ could anyone ever love Castiel? In such a pure, unconditional way as in all those stories? He finds it odd to think—and perhaps this is a little sad—but he’s never considered himself particularly _worthy_ of that kind of affection before. Hope and frantic nervousness swell up inside of him. 

But still; their relationship, whatever it entails, will be a particularly adverse one, and that is for certain. Dean has probably been promised a life lead only by his own choices, by his own loves, until now. Castiel has never been given that. It has always been a granted that he should marry to benefit the people whom he would one day rule over—this was probably never said to Dean until he was practically forced into the betrothal to Castiel. 

Samandriel approaches Castiel now—another thing which would be considered unusual in the Human realms—and smiles in a friendly, travel weary manner at him. While Castiel is in his home in Evadne; he has very few people to actually _talk_ to. The castle in which he was raised is of gigantic proportions, and a great many Angels are housed there; and yet everybody there is constantly busied with some kind of important activity or errand in which to run—and so Castiel is too often left in solitude. Michael, as the King of not only Evadne but also of all the Angels in all the Kingdoms, is consistently having to attend council sessions, to speak to his people and confer with his advisers, to pass laws and decisions. He must run the armies and decide upon their funds, resolve conflicts and avoid war on a daily basis. 

And Anna, Castiel’s older sister, lives in Tyrzah, as an Archangel. Castiel is rarely able to see her, due to her mounting responsibilities, however much he may like to. Anna has always been rebellious and fiery, and able to make her own decisions, which are generally faultless and precise and incredibly well informed, in the blink of an eye. She is also able to make Castiel smile; a difficult feat by any means; and is even more impressively able to make him laugh—but the two are rarely able to see each other anymore. Gabriel lives in Theia, ruling over it as one of its Archangels. Castiel would never admit to it, but he misses Gabriel’s company around the castle in Evadne, quite terribly. 

Their cousins Hester and Naomi both travel mostly, as Seraphim, to advise and convey messages to the other Kingdoms. Castiel is told that Naomi plans to settle in Theia when the year is done. As for Hester, she is currently running things—or at least assisting in their running—in wake of Michael’s absence; however, what she wishes to do in the years to come is something of a mystery to Castiel and he cannot describe himself as being massively close to either of the pair. They both seem cool and bitter at times, too formal at others and lacking all the warmth that Castiel knows his siblings to possess. 

He knows Naomi to be impulsive, though not in the way that his sister, Anna, is—although Michael says that this can be a positive trait, too. She is by no means reckless, at least. That said; Naomi has always been a rather cold and distant individual, which Castiel has often found oddly contradictory of her often forceful and robust demeanour. Hester is a little short tempered, especially for an Angel; but she is fair on most occasions, and shockingly quick-witted. Michael says that she would make an excellent Archangel if she ever came into the position.  

Castiel has a great many relatives. All of them accepted their roles as nobility, whatever these entailed, except for one. 

Of course, Lucifer is absent from the kingdoms. 

And so Castiel is, more often than not, bound by the absence of his family when in the castle, with only himself and his books for company. The only time he is generally able to see Michael is at each meal, where the two of them talk, and he is filled in on the events of the day—that is, if Michael considers them appropriate to disclose—and at Castiel’s training. Michael insists on teaching Castiel himself. 

So, in moments of solitude, void of any other company, Samandriel will often be a welcome companion for Castiel. He is of a similar age to Castiel, perhaps a little older, and has served Castiel’s family for a fair few years, now. He and Castiel will talk about many things; and Castiel is always very grateful for it; and as for Samandriel himself, Castiel finds his companionship extremely pleasant and relieving. 

 _“Hello, Prince_ _Castiel_ _.”_ The Angel smiles, giving a small bow, which Castiel returns—it is a custom of which Angels seem to pride themselves on; a sign of mutual respect. Castiel wonders if it is anything more than a mere tradition, an item of ceremony—he rather appreciates the gesture, and so hopes that it holds a deeper meaning than merely that of social convention.  

 _“Hello,_ _Samandriel_ _.”_ Castiel smiles. _“How was your journey?”_  

 _“It was good, I think—well, I was driving the carriage, so I would hope so, anyway.”_  

Castiel’s lips are tilted upwards slightly in amusement. 

 _“Good.”_ He smiles. 

 _“And how was yours, Prince_ _Castiel_ _?”_  

 _“I suppose it was_ _tolerable_ _.”_ Castiel shrugs, just as he did with Anna when answering this question. 

 _“Are you excited for seeing the Humans?”_  

 _“Well, I suppose I should be, shouldn’t I?”_ Castiel laughs, although it feels somewhat forced. Samandriel chuckles, too. 

Samandriel has brown hair and blue-grey eyes. Angel eyes are said to be more focussed, more piercing than the eyes of Humans, and this is yet another difference between the two species that fascinates Castiel. He wonders why it is, what has caused these differences over the centuries, and what they actually _mean._ Castiel imagines that he will find Human company far less threatening than he finds that of many Angels, simply because their gaze will be that much less intense, along with their thoughts and feelings being far more open, and Castiel therefore far more able to relate to them. Raphael, who has always seemed to look down on Humans, says that Human eyes are dull, Zachariah agrees and has told Castiel that Humans are dim-witted in comparison to Angels. Castiel does not think that they will be so; Human’s write with explosions of passion and an emotiveness Angel’s seem incapable of, even if many of the Human languages sound blunt and harsh in Castiel’s ears—but then, Castiel has never met a Human before, whereas Raphael and Zachariah have, for all that Castiel knows. They’re certainly old enough. 

Samandriel also has a rather open and kind face, and Castiel thinks that he appreciates this. His life still seems quietly void of warmth and honest, unpretentious friendliness. Any that he can get is worth more to him than he can fully comprehend. 

 _“We’re going in to the castle, now,_ _Castiel_ _.”_ Michael says, over his shoulder. _“If you could arrange yourselves appropriately.”_ He instructs all the Angels, now, and they nod, lining themselves in the already decided manner. Castiel smiles in a goodbye to Samandriel and goes and stands next to his sister. Anna smiles softly at him, her thin, dark lips quirking upwards in an affectionate manner. 

 _“You know, you’re almost as tall as me, now.”_ Anna laughs gently. The sound is like water running over pebbles. 

 _“I’m already taller.”_ Castiel frowns. _“By a long shot.”_  

 _“No, that can’t be possible.”_ Anna tips her head back and giggles again. _“You’re still a little fledgling in my eyes!”_  

 _“You’re very patronising.”_ Castiel attempts to deadpan, but he senses that he fails miserably. Anna titters and ruffles his feathers deliberately annoyingly. 

 _“Well, can you blame me?”_ Anna beams at her younger brother. _“You’ll always be a little prince to me.”_  

 _“You’re_ still _being very patronising.”_ Castiel observes. 

 _“Sorry.”_ Anna giggles again. _“It’s in my nature._ _A_ _s an older sister.”_  

Gabriel approaches and stands next to the two of them. 

 _“_ _So, little_ _Sarim_ _,_ _do you know why it took_ _so long for them to let us in? Because_ _I do.”_ He grins. Castiel tilts his head to the side and frowns at his older brother. Gabriel is a mystery to Castiel, sometimes—he has no idea why his brother is so constantly bemused by everything; especially when Castiel finds himself so consistently solemn and perplexed. 

 _“No.”_ Castiel shakes his head. 

 _“Do you_ want _to know?”_ Gabriel grins. 

Castiel sighs, as does his sister. 

 _“Fine, Gabriel.”_ She shrugs. _“Tell us why.”_  

 _“Your Dean—that’s why.”_ Gabriel grins at his younger brother. _“He was late, apparently.”_  

 _“Right.”_ Castiel says shortly. 

 _“Do you think it was out of nerves?”_ Gabriel asks, laughing, now. 

 _“Shut up, Gabriel.”_ Castiel sighs. 

 _“You know it’s not every day that you meet your future_ husband.” Gabriel grins. _“Are_ you _nervous? I don’t wish to freak you out or anything, little brother, but you kind of_ should _be—”_  

 _“Gabriel, please—”_ Castiel groans, his heart sinking into his stomach—but Anna places a comforting hand on his shoulder and he relaxes into her touch. 

 _“Do you think Dean will be nice? Do you think he’ll be attractive?”_ Gabriel grins. _“Do you_ find _people attractive,_ _Castiel_ _? Because I’ve never actually_ seen _you—”_  

Anna hits Gabriel, now, who yelps and swats her away. 

 _“So,_ _Castiel_ _,_ are _you_ _nervous?”_ Anna asks, changing the subject as they enter through the castle doors, behind everyone else. 

Michael is at the front of the group, while the servants, then advisers, then nobility follow him through. 

 _“I don’t know.”_ Castiel shrugs. _“I suppose, yes.”_  

 _“Yo_ _u have every right to be_ _._ _It’s absolutely understandable that you are._ _Although of course, there isn’t any_ need _to be, brother._ _”_  

 _“I don’t think I want to do this.”_  

 _“You don’t have to.”_ Anna reassures. 

 _“But I do.”_ Castiel protests. He hates how childish he sounds, already, but Anna gives him a gentle, sad sort of look.  

 _“What makes you say that?”_  

 _“It’s my duty, isn’t it? I have to do what’s best for the Kingdom, no matter what.”_  

 _“Here’s the thing,_ _Castiel_ _,”_ Anna sighs, speaking firmly. _“You do need to do what’s best for the Kingdom. But you should prioritise, always, what’s best for_ you.” 

Castiel nods. He glances nervously around the entrance hall they are currently standing in. Great grey pillars and arches surround them, and the whole place doesn’t look at all welcoming, despite the bunting and tapestries hung around the place sporting colours of the richest golds and purples and greens imaginable, and the emblems of the three Angel Kingdoms—and of course the Kingdom of Hera. 

 _“You’re only a child, after all.”_ Anna smiles softly. 

 _“I’m not a child—”_ Castiel protests, but Gabriel cuts him off by snorting loudly. 

 _“_ _Sorry.”_ Anna apologises. _“Of course not. But you know, y_ _ou might like him.”_ Anna shrugs. _“_ _Dean, that is._ _Just meet him, at least. He’s willing to meet you—”_  

 _“Well, he’s probably been forced into it; too, let’s face it—”_ Gabriel states realistically, but Anna cuts him off with a hard, angry glare. 

 _“Just meet him.”_ She says again to Castiel. 

 _“None of_ you _are married…”_ Castiel points out. _“Not you, not Gabriel, not even_ Michael. _Why should_ I _be the one to marry first?”_  

 _“I know, and I know this feels unfair—”_  

 _“It feels unfair because i_ _t_ is _unfair.”_  

Anna sighs.  

She doesn’t respond. 

The three of them nod their heads respectfully to the servants in the entrance hall, and, as the doors to the main hall are flung open, Castiel takes a deep breath. 

 _“You might like him.”_ Gabriel says again, quietly. _“You might end up_ loving _him.”_ He grins. 

 _“Shut up, Gabriel.”_ Castiel hisses in his brother’s direction. 

It’s a possibility, and one that Castiel had considered literally moments ago; but the thought that the Human _won’t_ love Castiel is terrifying—and the thought that he _could?_ It sends lightning fizzing through Castiel’s bones. 

Gabriel laughs and waggles his eyebrows at his younger brother as they enter the main hall behind everyone else. Light from arched stained glass windows situated at the very back of the hall floods the room in colourful dappled light, seeping in like minnows in a stream, and Castiel has to blink for a moment, taking his surroundings in. 

 _“There he is.”_ Anna mutters to Castiel. 

 _“There who is?”_ Castiel asks, looking around. 

 _“Dean.”_ Gabriel stage-whispers, pointing to the thrones at the front of the room, raised slightly. 

Castiel looks up. 

He sees a boy, an affectionate beam that floods the room with warmth, fixed on his face as he gazes at his younger brother, who is sat next to an empty throne—the boy’s gaze snaps back up, over to the Angels, and his jaw drops and suddenly the room is filled with his awe, palpable and _perfect_ and delighted at the sight of the approaching Angels. 

Castiel is met by the absence of wings behind his throne, by the stretch of spine with nothing more than skin folding off of it, he stares at the soft, green eyes, so unlike any he has ever encountered; so gently intense, instead of bearing the hard, brittle intensity of so many Angels. 

And this is what Humans look like. 

This is what Humanity looks like. 

The Human has light brown hair, which, like Castiel’s, looks like it is difficult to tame—either that, or Dean didn’t exactly _try_ to tame it this morning. Castiel makes out freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose in the sunlight filtered through the stained windows of the Main Hall, and an awestruck expression has spread itself across the young Prince’s features, lost in wonder. 

So this, Castiel thinks to himself, the earth’s rotations grinding to a halt; this is _Dean._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (next chapter I promise they finally get to meet! Hope you enjoyed)


	3. Misconceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know what? My father was right—I was right—you guys are so self-righteous!”
> 
> “What do you mean by ‘You guys’?” Castiel takes an astounded step back.
> 
> “Angels!” Dean spits. “You’re all sanctimonious dicks!”
> 
> “How have I been acting that way?” Castiel frowns, his expression and tone hardening. “How have my race ever behaved in that way?”
> 
> “Try thirteen years ago!” Dean finds himself shouting. “When my mom was slaughtered, and your people did fuck all to stop it!”
> 
> “The Angels didn’t know the attack was going to happen—how could we have known?! You think every one of us is a Seer?!”
> 
> Dean ignores Castiel’s response, his blood turning to fire in his veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3! Thank you to all those who have been commenting so far, it's been really encouraging - I was feeling really apprehensive abut the reception of this and whether or not you would actually think it was any good. Building whole universes, however fun it is, isn't easy by any means, and takes a lot of effort, so I hope it's been convincing thus far. 
> 
> For updates on the progression of the story, as well as for any answers questions on the details of the story visit/follow http://thedevilsepitaph.tumblr.com; and drop an ask for any questions you have about the progression of the story/the characters/thoughts about the universe, etc. I'll post pictures of what each kingdom looks like so you get a good idea of setting, as well as when each new update is going to be, and a couple of spoilers for those of you who are interested!
> 
> Visit my main tumblr ( http://ginnystiel.tumblr.com/ ) for updates on my other stories - and on the subject of other stories, I've just started a femslash destiel au, based on the Moulin Rouge! I'd love it if you checked it out, it'll probably ease the pain of waiting for new chapters from this story, so there's that, too.
> 
> Other than that, I hope you enjoy, and please comment!

**“Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.”**

― Virginia Woolf– from A Room of One’s Own

 

Dean’s mind whirls to a halt for several awkward, long moments. The Angels are infinitely more spectacular than he could have ever imagined—he’s never seen creatures so beautiful. 

They manage to be simultaneously nothing like Dean has pictured, and  _ everything  _ that Dean has spent so many years envisioning. They are just as Mary’s stories depicted them—and yet, even Dean’s mother, in all her storytelling prowess, had not managed to sum up the majesty of everything that Dean can behold in this moment. Even the brilliant Queen Mary hadn’t been able to truly, accurately convey the wonder of Angels. And they  _ are wonderful. _

Right now, looking at the Angels, Dean doubts that _anyone_ would be able to perfectly depict just how majestic they truly are.

Just as she had said , the Angels that Dean is instantly able to recognise as nobility have more than one colour in their wings. Those who Dean can see are servants and footmen have grey, brown or cream wings—the advisers that he can make out mainly have white or black colouring on their feathers. Despite this, each of them is astoundingly breath taking—Dean can’t bring himself to stop staring at each one of them. 

It’s overwhelming and terrifying and Dean hardly knows what to think—should he carry on hating the Angels?  _ Can _ he carry on hating the Angels? It seems almost as though the stars themselves have crafted them; Mary was right when she spoke of how intense their gazes were, Dean’s soul feels like it’s being ripped from its body and left in tatters on the floor of the Main Hall, the whole world has turned to silver dust s before him.

The Angels whom Dean assumes are servants stand back a bit from the rest; and the advisers a little closer, although they remain generally quite far away from the more important looking Angels. They wear clothing quite different to that of any Humans Dean has seen—rather than doublets and stockings or hose, they seem to wear long robes and tunics stretching down to their shins or even ankles; revealing dark boots, many of which are lined with fur. Dean wonders if the mountains are much colder than the lowlands of the Earthly Realms. Others wear sandals—Dean wonders if perhaps these are the Angels from Tyrzah, considering how much further south that land is than any of the other Angel Kingdoms, it must be remarkably warmer. The Angels Dean assumes are more important wear robes of rich yellows and golds; bronzes and reds; colours Dean cannot help but associate with sunshine. Those that appear to be advisers seem to don blues and purples—and those of the least importance wear pale greens and yellows and earthy browns. Despite this, all of the tunics donned by the Angels are embroidered with delicate, ornate stitching; the patterns again reminding Dean of glimmers of the sun or moon with their swirling, twisting rays of stitched golden and white-silver light. Those Angels that appear more important have the most embroidered onto their apparel, whilst those ranked lower down have less intricate designs. Dean watches as these Angels’ wings bristle slightly uncomfortably under everyone’s gaze, staring resolutely ahead and otherwise ignoring the crowd’s pressing looks. 

The Angel at the front of the group—he looks like the leader, Dean thinks, and the most important of all the Angels—walked confidently and authoritatively into the room when he entered; although Dean doesn’t find himself feeling threatened by the Angel—rather, simply left in captivated awe of the Angel’s commanding air. This Angel has gold wings, with dapples of bright and brilliant silver across them, just as Dean’s mother had said many royal Angels would. His tunic stretches down to his shins, golden thread stitched all the way across the material in a tangled, spiralled pattern. A thick dark belt is worn across his waist, and one of the biggest swords Dean thinks he has ever seen rests neatly in the Angel’s sheath. Its handle, more than double the size of the handles of the swords Dean is used to practicing with, is an oddly beguiling mix of emblazoned gold and a black, matt metal Dean finds himself unable to place.

“Dean?” John taps Dean on his shoulder, and he snaps out of his daze. “This is King Michael.” He says, gesturing to the important looking Angel. “He’s the High King of Evadne. It’s an honour to have him here.” His father states rather pointedly, nodding once, politely at the Angel, who smiles humbly and returns the nod—it looks like his father wants Dean to react in some way; to say something, but Dean isn’t sure about what exactly he’s getting at.

“Oh.” Dean nods. “Okay.” He hears sniggers of laughter coming from the back of the hall, and is about to turn and frown at those emitting the sounds, when his father sighs, frustrated, and hauls Dean to his feet, pushing him further towards the Angel with an infuriated mutter of profanities that Dean hopes only he can make out.

_ “Say Hello.” _ John hisses in Dean’s ear. Dean stumbles forward, swallowing thickly, and holds out his hand for the Angel to shake.

“Um—” Dean stammers. More laughter erupts. Dean’s face is burning—the first time Dean meets an Angel, and he has to make a fucking  _ fool  _ out of himself?!

“Hello, Prince Dean.” Michael greets, kindly, shaking Dean’s hand with both of his own. A short beard graces his jawline, the same colour as his hair, a dark black that seems a shockingly stark contrast to the rest of his light clothing, and of course his bright gold and silver wings. He’s handsome in the way that many of the knights that Dean trains with are; something focussed and weary sits behind his eyes, as though he’s seen a lot of the world and dislikes much of what it has had to offer him—but this disenchantment seems tangled with an awful lot of kindness and patience in his expression, deep behind those eyes. His hands are chiselled, as though through battle, and Dean thinks that he can make out the faint outline of scars on his face, paler than the rest of his skin. There is such an intense, flawed beauty to this Angel that Dean almost has to look away.

His voice is polite, and his words clipped, and he regards Dean slowly—Dean prickles slightly under the Angel’s gaze. “It truly is a pleasure and an honour to meet you. My name is Michael, as your father, the King of Hera, has said. I am High King over the Heavenly Realms.” Michael bows towards Dean’s father before turning back to Dean and doing the same.

Dean nods shortly.

But wait— _ he  _ should be the one bowing— _ shit— _ he gets onto his knee and does this, eyes flicking constantly down at the floor and up to the  _ enormous  _ Angel.

“Thank you—” He starts, struggling with his words. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”

The Angel smiles at Dean, which Dean finds oddly terrifying, and holds out his hand to help Dean up—it’s humiliating, but probably a good thing, because Dean thinks he’s about to fall over with nerves.

“I’ve always wanted to meet an Angel.”—Dean finds himself stammering out these words, and blushes furiously straight after saying this—yet to his surprise, he is not met with laughter or mockery from Michael, but with a wide—although quite a patronising—beam from the Angel King.

“That’s very kind of you to say. Many of my people have been very keen on meeting Humans, too, and have long awaited this day.” Michael smiles with understanding. There are a few murmurs of agreement from behind him, but he turns and raises an eyebrow at those Angels emitting them, and they are quickly silenced. The stately, terrifying, and yet oddly humble Angel turns to address Dean’s father. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves to you all?” He suggests. The King nods shortly, sitting back in his chair.

“Dean.” King John says curtly, and Dean’s gaze snaps back to his father. “Come.” Dean’s father sounds extremely embarrassed, and it doesn’t seem as though he wants to fuck around with being polite to his son in public, right now. That should be enough of a warning sign in itself. Dean wonders absently just  _ how much _ of his father’s greeting he missed while entirely spaced out; captivated by the Angels—Bobby and his advisers had spent  _ hours  _ helping John prepare as sincere a welcoming speech as possible, and Dean apparently missed all of it because he was  _ daydreaming _ .

He nods meekly and returns to stand in front of his throne, his face still burning fiercely red. He can’t bring himself to look at Sam, who he knows is desperately biting down on his laughter, his eyes watery with tears of mirth, and his body shaking with silent breaths of mockery directed towards Dean.

The Angels approach the thrones in front of which Dean, John and Sam are standing, one at a time, each of them introducing themselves to first Sam, then John, then, finally, Dean, bowing deep and low as they do so. Dean is sort of jealous that Sammy gets to meet all the Angels first, although he wouldn’t be caught  _ dead  _ admitting this out loud. 

After greeting Dean, the Angels go to introduce themselves to the council members—Bobby being the first person outside of Dean’s family that they go to greet in the hall.

The Angels, Dean decides, are very much different to Humans in both custom and diction. They speak in short, trimmed words, so that Dean cannot make out their accents or even whether or not they have accents, though their sentences flow smoothly like water in a calm brook. They are almost painfully polite and all smile in a well-mannered way to Dean as they introduce themselves, bowing their heads slightly—Dean is used to this from citizens, being the son of the King and all, but it feels  _ strange  _ to be greeted thus by  _ Angels— _ after idolising the creatures for so long, he almost feels as though  _ he  _ should be the one behaving so humbly and politely towards  _ them _ .

Dean watches as the servants, then advisers introduce themselves—he wonders if this is something the Angels do on purpose; if it is some kind of tradition—Dean’s father wouldn’t  _ dream  _ of letting any of the castle hands introduce themselves to other royals, let alone introduce themselves  _ before  _ Dean’s father did—Dean questions as to whether this is yet another humble thing that the Angels do, or merely a convention—he has to admit, so far, the Angels don’t seem nearly as self-righteous or haughty as he had spent so many months imagining them to be. 

And he feels almost disappointed about the fact that he can’t blame his mistrust for them now on sanctimonious tendencies, or some kind of infuriating superiority complex. If he is honest, the Angels who he can tell are most obviously royalty seem very much intent on the idea of their servants being treated with the utmost respect—something which Dean finds himself admiring, rather a lot.

“Greetings, Your Highness.” An Angel greets Dean, bowing deep and long. “My name is Samandriel. I am a servant in the High King Michael’s household.” The Angel has brown hair and wings of an odd dark ruddy brown colour, that Dean doesn’t recall his mother describing to him when explaining all the Angel wing varieties. They aren’t nearly as big as some of the Angels behind him—and Dean’s mind flits back to Michael’s enormous and terrifying gold and silver pair. Dean wonders if perhaps the size of an Angel’s wings also says something about the Angel themselves, as well as the colour of them.

“Hello, Samandriel” Dean nods, smiling up at the Angel. Dean’s father coughs once, clearly frustrated at Dean’s informality, but Dean looks away, ignoring him. 

The Angel bows his head humbly and moves along, greeting Bobby and then the rest of the council members. Dean cannot stop thinking of how pleasantly, quietly polite each of the Angels are being. It’s almost this huge contradiction—the most chilling, magnificent creatures Dean has ever seen also apparently behave with startling modesty. 

The next of the Angels to greet him is apparently called Inias. He is also a servant, and has matt brown, almost black, wings and a pair of very intense yet kind dark eyes that glitter in their sockets.

Dean’s fingers hurt from all the shaking hands, which begins when the council-members begin to greet Dean and his family; and Dean’s neck aches from returning the bows politely, by the time the Angel nobility begins introducing themselves. Dean hasn’t been able to take a look at many of the other Angels in the rest of the line; he’s been far too preoccupied with carefully, fascinatedly studying the appearance of whichever one happened to be greeting him at each moment in time.

There are only a few of them left, now, and Dean has become a little giddy from so many Angels—all of this has been overwhelming, if Dean is honest with himself, and after a sleepless night imagining every one of these creatures’ wonder, he’s afraid he’s going to pass out from standing for what feels like an age.

Michael smiles as he shakes Dean’s hand again, and Dean swallows awkwardly, attempting not to relive his earlier mortifying experience as he greets the King once more.

He turns to the next Angel, who wears a wide grin that Dean hasn’t seen any of the other Angels wearing. He doesn’t look nearly as humble as the other Angels do, although perhaps this is just down to the confidence that is so clearly emitting from the Angel, rather than him possessing any lack of stifling politeness that radiates from so many of the others. This Angel’s wings are an unusual coppery sort of colour, mixed in with metallic yellows and oranges, and Dean can make out a few gold feathers there, too.

He doesn’t realise that he’s been staring until the Angel speaks.

“Hello, little prince.” The Angel grins at Dean. He doesn’t speak like the other Angels do—this one talks almost like most Humans; his words aren’t short or slowly formed in his mouth—and he certainly isn’t holding himself in the withdrawn, introspective way many of the other Angels are. 

There is no quiet, elegant dignity; and although he does look open and oddly amused at his surroundings, Dean isn’t sure if he should be offended or if he should laugh along, too. 

“They call me Gabriel. I’m Michael’s brother, King of the Kingdom of Theia.” The Angel holds out his hand for Dean. His eyes, the colour of wheat and oak and golden ale, are still sparking with amusement, and Dean peers at him curiously at the sight. “—I’ve got to say, what you pulled back there had me biting on my knuckles to stop my laughter—was it intentional humour or…? Don’t answer, there’s no need to fill the day with  _ more  _ embarrassment. I’d sort of had the sinking feeling your kind—Humans, that is—were all going to be as much to fun as eunuchs are to fucking—which is not very much at all, by the way—so you have my pleasantly surprised thanks for proving me wrong—”

“ _ Gabriel _ —” Michael cuts across, taking on an odd, warning sort of tone, his voice growling slightly in his throat. Dean thinks he hears the Archangel’s accent come through a little more as he says his brother’s name, perhaps because he’s losing patience.

“I’m glad I could help—?” Dean frowns, perplexed, and the Angel lets out a bark of laughter. 

“Sarcasm duly noted.” Gabriel smirks. “But for what it’s worth, it was very much appreciated—by me at least. They say I have a fairly warped sense of humour.” 

“I can’t begin to think why.” Dean quips before he can stop himself, but the Angel only chuckles, giving Dean one more entertained look before moving on. 

Next, Dean shakes hands with a beautiful, redheaded angel. She looks quite a few years older than Dean—if Angels age in the same way as Humans do, that is—and smiles at the young prince as she speaks. Her eyes spark with something not unlike the look that Gabriel’s held when he introduced himself, but with less sunshine in her gaze and more fire—Dean finds this Angel peculiarly far more terrifying. Her wings match her hair—they are a brilliant, intimidating, velvet crimson, and look softer than water—and Dean attempts to recall what it was his mother told him this meant as he shakes the Angel’s hand. 

She introduces herself as Anael, or Anna, and Dean smiles as convincingly as he can as he greets her. She wears a tunic of black and green, a green darker than the evergreens which grow in the northern mountains, and she too wears a sword attached to her belt—Dean struggles not to gape at it. A  _ woman  _ carrying a sword? And in public? He  _ has  _ to tell Jo, she’d be delighted. He wonders for a moment how very different the customs and traditions of Angels and Humans are—do women fight in combat, too? He’s always known female Angels could rule Kingdoms, and that as many Queens had been Archangels as Kings in the Heavenly Realms, and were considered highly by all the creatures they ruled—such things were infinitely less commonplace in most of the Human kingdoms—but did they  _ fight,  _ too? 

Combat, to Humans, has always been considered unladylike—a fact which Dean knows frustrates Jo to an almost comic degree. Or is this Angel’s sword just decorative? Many old lords that Dean has met, who have grown fat with wine and ale and sweetmeats over the years, ruling over land in Dean’s father’s kingdom, carry swords around their waists that Dean is certain haven’t been swung in years… One man, Thomos Heimon, Lord of the Isles of Hespere, grew so useless with rule that his sword rusted inside his scabbard, so that when he died and his embalmers attempted to unsheathe it to lay it across his chest, as was customary, the weapon split into hundreds of tiny, ruddy pieces.

Dean’s father had never liked Lord Thhomos—for this very reason; that he had grown enormous and lazy with rule—he had always said to Dean that if a man could not fight for his throne, he should not keep it.  

This Angel in front of Dean—Anael, Queen of Tyrzah—gives off the impression that she both unsheathes her sword and fights for her throne rather a lot. The scabbard of her weapon is simple black leather, imprinted with small figures and letters that Dean cannot make out, but its hilt is encrusted with a great emerald surrounded by smaller rubies, plated gold.

Dean can’t stop wondering which of these Angels, if any, is the one Dean is supposed to marry.

As the final Angel approaches, something catches Dean’s eye. He forgets how to breathe again, and he cannot stop staring at the final pair of wings of the Angel walking slowly, awkwardly yet elegantly, towards him. Dean’s throat is completely dry as he gazes at the being.

He stares at the overpowering black wings , at the brilliant, shimmering blue fading gently onto each individual feather, as though each dark one of them has had its tip dipped into the brilliant, startling powdered dye from the southern isles that they say are composed of crushed sapphires—

What do these feathers mean? What had his mother explained about this particular combination of colours on an Angel’s wings? Dean wracks his brain.

—Oh. That was it.

Humanity.

“Hello, Your Highness.” The final Angel greets Dean, bowing his head and kneeling a moment. Dean breathes in a gasp of air and flicks his eyes up, at last, to the Angel’s face. His throat dries up all over again. Dean’s mother had been right about Angels’ eyes, too—or  _ this  _ Angel’s eyes, at least. They shatter through Dean’s body, leaving him feeling bare and raw—he can’t bring himself to drag his own away from the Angel’s piercing gaze. His eyes are nearly  _ precisely  _ the same colour as the blue on his wings; perhaps lighter; and Dean feels as though he’s just been pushed off a cliff and is about to tumble, headfirst, into the ocean with a crash of waves as he breaks into the water. The Angel has dark, messy, raven hair—the same colour as Archangel Michael’s—and  _ devastatingly _ blue eyes and Dean finds himself gaping at the Angel, at the way he peers at Dean. What is he regarding Dean with? What does he think of Dean?

“I am Prince Castiel.” The Angel says slowly, as though Dean is a riddle, and as the Angel speaks, he is attempting to solve Dean. “I’m Michael’s youngest brother.”

Dean nods, his mouth wide open—he can’t speak, all over again, and he can hear Sam laughing at him in the background, but he can barely make it out at all—concentrating on anything or anyone other than the Angel is impossible. Dean swallows again. His head is pounding, spinning, as he stares at this Angel—the most beautiful, Dean thinks, by far, of all the Angels in the room.

“I’m Dean.” He chokes, sounding ineloquent as he speaks, as well as quite pained. 

His throat far has gone too dry for comfort. 

“ _ Prince _ Dean—” Dean corrects, blinking quickly. “—Well, not officially—You kind of need to have this special ceremony before you actually get  _ crowned—”  _

“Dean,” John mutters, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers—never a good sign. Dean is still blushing furiously, his face blistering red with shame.

“—I’m Sammy’s older brother.” Dean says. It’s the first thing that comes to his head. Dean can hear still more laughter—it erupts from both his brother, and his father’s council members—and Dean thinks he can recognise the Angel, Gabriel’s, laughter in the mass, too, but his eyes remain almost obediently, unquestioningly trained on the Angel Castiel. His neck begins to prickle painfully with shame when he sees this Angel in front of him attempting to hide an amused smile, too.

“I know who you are.” The Angel nods, bowing his head slightly, still biting down on a smirk. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Prince Dean.”

“You too—it’s  _ brilliant _ to meet you—it’s—an honour, really, I never—it’s  _ brilliant— _ ”

John’s loud sigh cuts Dean off, and the Angel’s lips quirk still further upwards. He bows his head at Dean, smiling politely, although amusement is still etched across his features.

Dean smiles—he feels as though it looks pained, more than anything else, but something new and alien and not unpleasant is gushing through him as the Angel walks away. Sammy is still laughing, a few seats away from him, and Dean scowls at his younger brother’s constant mockery 

He can’t stop, nor can he help his awkward glances over to the dark haired Angel the whole way through his father’s second speech which once again welcomes the host of Angels, reminding what an important and wonderful day this is. Dean’s heart is hammering against his chest, his limbs feel numb—the Angel is breath-taking. He barely pays attention when Bobby stands up to say a few words, and instead glances away from the blue and black winged creature quickly whenever he thinks the Angel might notice Dean staring over at him. 

_ Castiel _ .

Angels have strange and alien names, Dean has decided, his tongue can’t curl around them right and they come out of his mouth harsh and flat and boring and nowhere as mystical or fantastic as the Angel’s manage to pronounce them. But he likes the name Castiel—he likes the way the Angel says it, he likes the elegance of it, the way Castiel rolled the name off his tongue when he introduced himself , words sounding like bubbling water—if he is honest, he likes far more than just Castiel’s name—but he’s already managed to make that mortifyingly obvious.

The Angel is Michael’s younger brother—that was how he had introduced himself—and Dean wonders if he has any more siblings or relatives in the crowd of Angels that will be staying in the Kingdom. 

Castiel must live in Evadne, too, with his brother—he looks fairly young, so it’s unlikely he would have moved away from his home yet. But that’s another thought—how  _ do  _ Angels age? 

Dean can remember being told that Angels can live for thousands of years—some people actually said forever, if an Angel wanted to. But how could that even be possible? How could something live  _ forever?!  _ And how old—in Human terms—are the Angels in front of him?

Dean hasn’t been paying attention and he snaps out of his daze when he sees the Angels exiting, being led out by some of his father’s servants. He watches; a sinking feeling settling deep inside his gut, as the Angel, Castiel, begins to leave, too. 

Castiel only glances back at Dean once, a small smile still etched upon his features, but Dean still blushes furiously and forces himself to look away for a moment, returning his gaze to the Angel when he is just exiting the room, his back to Dean. He seems caught in conversation with the Angels Gabriel and Anna, or rather, nods softly as they speak to him. Dean seizes the opportunity to admire his brilliant blue and black wings, once more.

 

The Angel seems quiet and soft and powerful and perfect, his expression fixed in something caught between thoughtfulness and worry, and Dean swears by the Mothering Forest—

“Dean?” The King turns to Dean and frowns heavily at his son. The jewels on his crown wink at Dean in the coloured sunlight streaming through the stained windows. Dean still feels dazed by everything that he has just seen. “What the  _ hell _ was that all about?”

The young prince bites his lip and looks down, his face heating again. He feels completely unsure about what to say in response to his father’s question. Remembering how he just acted, Dean realises how it is that he has embarrassed himself.

“Let him be,” Bobby pats Dean’s shoulder, reassuringly. “The child has spent his whole life dreaming about meeting an Angel, and now it’s come true. And in proportions none of us could’ve imagined. He’s allowed to get a little overwhelmed.”

Dean is grateful for Bobby’s defence, but equally still kind of pissed that he’s just been called a child, yet again. Especially seeing as, if things go the way his father and Bobby would like, Dean will become engaged to one of these Angels, eventually.

_ Shit _ .

Dean will become engaged to an Angel—maybe one of the Angels he saw just now, maybe—

Dean’s gut twists when he thinks of Castiel again.

“Dean?” John turns to Dean and frowns again, sighing exasperatedly at his son. “Were you paying attention to anything that I just said?”

Dean looks down and shakes his head.

“Sorry.” He mumbles. John runs a frustrated hand through his hair, nearly pushing his crown off his head, and huffs yet another sigh at his son.

“We’ll be holding an official assembly this evening with the Angels. It’ll be over dinner. Well, technically, I guess it’ll be a banquet, with all the people—or, indeed, Angels—that we’ll be serving.”

“Okay.” Dean nods. He doesn’t mention the fact that Angels obviously  _ are  _ people. John made the distinction for a reason.

“Can you  _ try  _ not to be late?” His father sighs. “And at least try not to make an idiot out of yourself?”

“I didn’t—”

“You behaved like a fool, Dean. Like a fucking court jester.”

Despair settles deep in Dean’s stomach.

He knows he had behaved embarrassingly, but like a  _ clown? _

It must’ve been a lot worse than he first thought—which is saying something quite terrible.

“Sorry.” Dean mumbles again. John sighs and rubs his face with both of his palms.

“It’s fine. I didn’t even want them to come, anyway.”

“They seemed alright.” Dean says quietly. He flinches away slightly when John’s eyes flick up to his face, filled with offense at Dean’s comment and frustration at all of his son’s actions—but before he can do any more than scowl at Dean, Bobby cuts in.

“They  _ are  _ alright. Both of you need to be polite to them—No, John, I don’t want to hear an excuse. They’re guests, and they’ve come here to help us. And they’ve been incredibly well-mannered, if you ask me. The least you can do is be as welcoming as possible towards them.”

John sighs again and gets up from his seat. Dean follows suit, doing the same.

“Fine.” John murmurs. He still looks filthily offended by both Bobby and Dean’s defending of the Angels, but he doesn’t say anything more about it. “Sam, Dean, I’ll see you both at dinner. You can leave us, now.”

Sam looks relieved and jumps from his chair, and down the steps leading up to the thrones with a surprising amount of grace for an increasingly awkward, gangly boy. Sam casts one last fleeting grin over at Dean and dashes out of the hall. Dean sighs as he exits, much more slowly, slumping resignedly as soon as he leaves his father’s line of vision.

He feels tired—tired and still burning hotly with blistering embarrassment at his earlier actions. If only the ground would swallow him whole, he thinks to himself—then at least he’d be rid of this mortifying life and awkward body. He woke up far too early this morning, and he didn’t even manage to arrive on time—as well as that, he got next to no sleep the previous night. He’d spent the whole time thinking about the fact that he was  _ finally  _ going to meet an Angel. More than one Angel, as it turns out,  _ way  _ more than one. 

But when he finally  _ did  _ meet an Angel, he made a fool out of himself. Members of the council actually  _ laughed  _ at him—which isn’t something they’d usually do—it was horribly disrespectful, after all—yet the King didn’t deem it worthy to punish them for their mockery, which means that Dean well and truly  _ earnt  _ all their scorn. Dean has made himself look like a complete idiot in front of the Angels—in front of one Angel in particular, and the knowledge of this makes Dean wish the earth would crack open and swallow him whole.

But why had he found that particular Angel so enchanting? Dean has been convinced for what feels like _ years _ that Angels are cowardly and self-righteous and not worth any of his time—why was it that one of them had captivated Dean so thoroughly? 

He thinks of the piercing blue eyes, of the dark eyelashes framing these, of the slightly perplexed, yet amused expression the Angel had worn whilst introducing himself, and he feels his stomach twist; although with what, he doesn’t know.

But it  _ can’t  _ be that he had actually found an Angel attractive. It can’t be that.

It was probably just his wings, Dean reminds himself.

Now that he’s away from the Angel, it’s a lot easier to think rationally.

He can still remember his mother telling him about those wings, and so when he had looked at them, he had just been swept away by the truth of what she had said, how right she had been about the vibrancy of their colour. That was all.

He pushes the thought of the dark haired Angel out of his mind.

“How amazing was  _ that?!”  _ Sam grins up at Dean as he turns a corner of the corridor to find his brother waiting for him there.

Dean smiles despite himself, and shrugs.

“Oh come on, Dean,” Sam frowns . “You must have found it at least a  _ little  _ exhilarating.”

“It was okay, I guess.” Dean attempts to keep his voice as flat and emotionless as possible as he speaks.

“It looked like you thought it was a little more than  _ ‘Okay’”  _ Sammy smirks, jumping up the first few steps of a flight of stairs. “I didn’t know you could be that funny.”

“It wasn’t intentional, believe me.” Dean mutters, his face heating slightly, once again. Sam grins down at him as he continues to climb the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. Dean trudges up slowly, feeling hopeless.

“Well, I was right, anyway.” Sam laughs as the two of them reach the top of the staircase.

“About what?” Dean frowns at his brother.

“You really  _ were  _ excited to be meeting them.”

Dean swallows once more. When he speaks again, he continues the hopeless attempt of keeping his voice as void of emotion as possible.

“Well, I guess I was—but only a little.” He admits. “And only because it’s not every day you get to meet a whole assembly of Angels, after all.”

“Right…” Sam smirks again. He doesn’t say anything more, but Dean  _ knows  _ that he’s trying to piss Dean off, and dammit, it’s working.

“What?” Dean frowns. “You don’t believe me?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

“Why else would I have been excited?”

“I don’t know.” Sam grins knowingly. “I guess because you still really love the idea of Angels, or something. You still think there’s something beautiful and poetical about them. You always did, and, it seems, you always will.”

Damn it, damn Sammy and his using big words and leaving things unsaid just to piss Dean off and understanding his older brother completely. God fucking damn it.

“What?” Dean asks, trying to sound as incredulous as possible.

“You still love Angels, Dean.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It’s definitely not. You really do!” Sam goads. “It’s just like when you were a child! You’re  _ fascinated  _ by them!”

“I’m not a child anymore.”

“You kind of are.” Sam laughs.

“I’m not.” Dean bites, a scowl spreading across his face.

“No, you’re right.” Sam admits, and Dean is about to feel relief, but he glances over to Sam’s laughing face and sighs, rolling his eyes. “You might be getting married, soon, for all we know.” Sammy reminds.

“Not if I can help it.” Dean growls.

“Why do you hate the idea so much?”

“You really want to hear why?”

“Sure.”

“It’s a pretty long list, Sammy.”

“I don’t care.” Sam shrugs, following Dean as he enters into his bedroom. “I’ll listen.”

“Okay;” Dean sighs. “First of all, it’s the Angels’ fault that we couldn’t seek revenge from the Demons after they killed our mother. The Angels refused to help, remember?”

“They’re helping, now.”

“It’s too late, Sam!—Thirteen years too late!”

“Better late than—”

“Well, whatever. Don’t even say that, it’s a shitty excuse. They didn’t help and they should have.” Dean sniffs, looking out of his windows instead of at his brother. “And when I was younger, I used to think like you—I used to think that they must have had their reasons, that they must have an excuse for all of this. But they don’t. There isn’t an excuse big enough to make up for how they fucked us over. I don’t want to give them the benefit of the doubt, Sammy, because to be honest, there’s no sane way that I  _ can. _ When you’re older, you’ll understand.”

Sam rolls his eyes incredulously at this last part and sits on Dean’s bed.

“Don’t even try that.” Dean’s younger brother huffs. “I’m old enough to make my own decisions and I’m smart enough to come to my own conclusions.”

“Whatever.”

“You hate it when  _ I  _ patronise  _ you.” _

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause I’m  _ not  _ a kid. And getting patronised by your  _ younger _ brother is really quite a terrible experience, Sam.”

Sammy laughs.

“You hate it when other people patronise you, too.”

“And like I said, that’s ‘cause I’m not a kid any more. I’m going to be a Prince,  _ officially, _ very soon, you know.”

“I know.” Sam smirks. Dean frowns at his brother’s facial expression. “You mentioned that to Prince Castiel, earlier.”

Dean’s face blushes a deep, hideously dark red.

“Shut up.” He mutters, pulling off his shirt and replacing it with the older one that Ellen had told him off for wearing that morning.

“It seemed like he made quite an impression on you.” Sam chides, grinning knowingly at Dean.

_ “Shut up.”  _ Dean repeats.

“He  _ was _ very handsome.” Sam coos at Dean, jumping up from where he had been sitting on Dean’s bed.

“Angels can’t be handsome.” Dean states, jaw clenching. 

“About half an hour ago you would’ve begged to differ, judging by your face as you stared at  _ that  _ Angel.”

“I didn’t stare at him.”

_ “Please,  _ Dean. You wouldn’t look at anyone else.”

“Piss off, Sammy.” Dean mutters. Sam snorts, exiting Dean’s room. Dean can hear him running down the corridor, his feet slapping loudly on the stone castle floor, before the sound of Sammy entering his own room and closing the wooden door loudly behind him echoes through the hallway.

He sighs and slumps down onto his bed, splaying his body pathetically across all of it and staring hopelessly up at the ceiling of his four-posters. What the fuck had he been thinking, earlier today? What was it that had been running through his mind? Why does he always manage to make such a fool of himself, when it matters most?

Dean sighs when he hears a knock at his door.

“Come in,” He groans, lifting his head slightly to see Ellen peering round the wooden doorframe.

“I’m guessing by your tone that things didn’t go too well today.” Ellen states worriedly, stepping inside Dean’s room.

“You’d be guessing correctly.” Dean deadpans.

“Oh, I’m really sorry about that, Dean.” Ellen frowns sympathetically. She closes the door slightly, though not entirely, behind her.

Dean only shrugs from where he lies—he’s currently trying to care as little as possible.

“What happened?” Ellen asks, straightening out Dean’s bed sheets as best she can, what with Dean lying despondently on top of them, refusing to move no matter how many times Ellen sighs pointedly.

“I made myself look like an idiot.” Dean groans, running his hands over his face dejectedly. “There’s not much else to say, really. That’s about it.”

“Now, come on, Dean.” Ellen reprimands gently. “Don’t say that.” She begins to smooth down her skirts and rolls up her sleeves as she starts to pick more of Dean’s possessions up off of the floor.

“There’s no other way of saying it.” Dean groans from where he lies. “I’m sure  _ all  _ the Angels think I’m an idiot, to be honest—but that’s not even the worst part—I bet—”

Dean cuts himself off.  _ No.  _

Ellen is silent, for a moment, expecting Dean to continue. When he doesn’t, she sighs and pats him gently, comfortingly, from where she stands beside his bed, thankfully choosing not to press him for the end of his sentence.

“I’m sure it wasn’t  _ that  _ bad.” She soothes.

“It was.” Dean shakes his head, groaning at the memory of all that had happened. “You weren’t there.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Ellen admits, sighing gently. “And I guess I wouldn’t know.” She pats Dean again, softly. “Were the Angels anything like you expected, at least?”

Dean considers this question for a moment. 

He hadn’t done them justice, when dreaming of them as a child. He hadn’t been able to conceive just how glorious each and every Angel would be. One Angel, alone, had been breath-taking, overwhelming, for him. A whole group had been intoxicating.

“Ellen?” Dean asks, looking up slightly. He is met by gentle, loving, maternal eyes, and the kindest smile he knows. It reassures him no end, and he feels his body relax somewhat.

“Yes, Dean?”

“They were better than I could have ever imagined.”

Ellen smiles happily at him for a moment—it’s an odd kind of bittersweet look—she seems overjoyed that Dean’s dream was everything—and more—that he had hoped it would be, and it looks like she is about to say something—probably something ridiculously sentimental about how glad she is about all of this, but there comes a firm, polite knock at the door, and Ellen glances over to it, her eyes flicking away from Dean’s for a moment.

“Who’s that?” Dean asks her, frowning slightly.

“I don’t know.” Ellen presses her lips into a thin line. “Servants shouldn’t be coming to clean up your room just yet. And most of them should be out making preparations for the feast tonight, anyway.”

She steps over to the door, and Dean lifts his head up, slightly, from where he lies on his bed.

Dean sits up abruptly when Ellen opens the door properly, and he sees who is outside. He feels his face heat straight away.

“Hello there—I’m awfully sorry to disturb you,” King Michael bows his head slightly to Ellen; and Dean, despite the nervous, mortified anxiety worming itself tightly through him, still feels incredibly impressed that the Angel still is being so polite—especially to a woman who Dean is convinced is  _ very _ clearly a servant of Dean’s family. “My youngest brother, Castiel, was wondering if he could be given a tour of the castle—and perhaps the grounds around it,” Michael gestures to Castiel, who stands, captivating as ever, a little behind the Angel King. “—And so I suggested that he come to Prince Dean for this. It would also be a chance for the two of them to become better acquainted, I think—introductions this morning were rather short, after all.”

Ellen beams over to Dean, who fumbles to stand up and get himself off the bed, nearly falling off of it. He watches, hopelessly, as the dark haired Angel suppresses a smile and yet more laughter at Dean’s clumsiness; and Dean feels his face blister red with heated embarrassment.

“Would that be okay, Dean?” Ellen asks, looking over to Dean, a wide smile still fixed to her face. Dean swallows hard.

“Um—”

“Please say if it’s not—I’m sure we can find someone else.” Michael bows his head slightly to both Dean and Ellen as he speaks.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s quite alright, My Lord.” Ellen beams. “Of course he’d  _ love _ to. Wouldn’t you, Dean?” She turns to Dean again, whose face is impossibly red.

“No—I mean, yeah—I mean, no I wouldn’t mind—and yes, that’d be fine.” Dean fumbles for his words, kicking himself internally for how  _ fucking ridiculous _ he sounds. “I’d love to.” He manages to say, without tripping up over each word; which is massively impressive, all things considered. He smiles as genuinely as he can at the dark haired Angel, who twitches his lips upwards slightly. This action alone is enough to send elated butterflies shooting through his system.

“Excellent.” Michael smiles. “Thank you very much, that’s very kind of you.” He nods at Dean.

“Oh—it’s not a problem—I—” Dean babbles slightly, and Michael smiles again, patting his younger brother on the shoulder.

“Well, in any case, I’m sure we’re both very grateful. I should be getting along, now, but I thank you very much.” He nods to Ellen politely, who beams in response; and then to Dean, before patting his brother on the shoulder one last time and leaving down the hallway. Dean can hear his confident footsteps fading down the long corridor.

There is a painful silence for a few moments, and Dean bites his lip, his heart hammering, before Ellen sighs, sounding exasperated at Dean’s sudden inability to speak.

“So, Dean, what are you going to do now?”

“What?” Dean asks, looking over to Ellen, from where she stands next to Castiel.

“Are you going to show the Prince around our home? Like you said you would?”

“—Oh” Dean stammers. “—Right. Yeah. Of course.”

He blushes furiously, his head doing that awkward pounding thing again, and steps towards Castiel.

“Um—So…” Dean starts gracelessly. He  _ swears _ he can see Ellen smirking at him from the corner of his eye. “—Where would you like to start?”

“I don’t mind.” The Angel smiles, shrugging. “Although I would be very interested in seeing the grounds of the castle, if that’s alright. But you can decide; I don’t want to cause any inconveniences.”

“Oh, no—it wouldn’t be an inconvenience. That’d be fine.” Dean smiles, his heart hammering almost painfully against his ribcage. “—That’d be great, in fact—” Dean cuts himself off. Holy shit, he acts like such a clown around this Angel.

The Angel smiles again and says nothing, and for a moment, Dean gets kind of lost in the way that his wings twitch and sway slightly behind him, by his sides. He snaps his gaze up to Castiel’s face when the Angel coughs awkwardly under Dean’s stare.

“—Sorry.” Dean stammers, quickly. He steps over to the door, his face still embarrassingly red, and he hears, much to his distaste, Ellen coughing back a laugh from behind him. “Bye, Ellen.” He says shortly, and Ellen bites down on a beam and waves at the pair.

“Goodbye, Dean, I guess I’ll see you later today, if I get the chance. Have fun, you two—it was a pleasure meeting you, Prince Castiel.” She bows to the Angel, and after so many years of informality with Ellen, the sight is almost strange to Dean.

“Thank you.” Castiel smiles, nodding politely at Ellen. “It was wonderful meeting you, too.”

Dean steps quickly out of his room, desperate not to let Ellen embarrass him for any longer, and the Angel follows behind him, down the dull grey corridors of the castle.

“So…” Dean starts again. “You wanted to see the grounds?”

“If you could show them to me, that would be brilliant, thank you.” The Angel nods, smiling so subtly that Dean really ought not to be able to notice—as it is; his gaze is fixed so intently upon the Angel that it is no surprise that he does.

Now that Dean is standing up next to the guy, he can see that the Angel is just a little taller than himself—now that Dean has got over the initial shock of those wings, he can take in Castiel’s actual _features._ They’re all pointed and centred and focussed; the Angel looks like his face has been carved out of marble, everything is so precise and perfect. He has frown lines, probably from looking so constantly bewildered, and hair a dark enough brown that it is almost pitch black, and almost the exact colour of the black on his wings. It’s messy and sticks up at all kinds of awkward angles, but, if anything, it just makes him seem ever _more_ endearing to Dean—it looks tousled and soft and Dean finds himself licking his lips as he stares at it for what could be anywhere between a moment and several fucking _hours_. 

Wait,  _ fuck  _ no, Dean snaps out of his daze. It isn’t endearing. Angels aren’t endearing. Angels are  _ assholes _ .

“Right.” Dean nods. “That wouldn’t be a problem. Um—this way, I guess—” He says, gesturing down the corridor awkwardly. Castiel smiles and begins to walk with Dean.

“That lady, in your room—” Castiel starts, thankfully breaking the silence that has fallen between the two of them.

“—Who, Ellen?” Dean asks, glancing over at the Angel.

“I didn’t catch her name, unfortunately.” The Angel frowns. “But she is called Ellen?”

“She is.” Dean confirms.

“I see,” Castiel nods, slowly. “Only—my brother told me that your mother died in the Demon invasion, thirteen years ago—”

“She did…” Dean coughs awkwardly in confirmation, frowning and nodding slowly. He looks away from the Angel for a moment—he’s acting seriously socially inept right now, even by Dean’s pitiful standards of the day, and Dean wonders what exactly the Angel’s problem is.

“Right—sorry.” Castiel bows his head slightly as he speaks to Dean. Dean shrugs off his apology, although something bitter twists sharply inside of him.

“All I was wondering is—that lady—Ellen? Is she your stepmother?”

“No.” Dean frowns again.

“Oh,” Castiel says, his voice slightly confused. “But the two of you seemed very close—”

“—Oh… Well, that’s probably because we  _ are _ very close. She basically raised me. She is— _ was— _ my Nanny, when I was a child.”

“I understand. Vestals cared for me when I was young, too.” Castiel nods slowly. “None of them for particularly long, however—I don’t think I was ever presented with the opportunity to grow hugely close to any of them. They could be quite severe. But your Ellen? She seemed very lovely.”

“She is.” Dean finds himself beaming.

Castiel glances over to Dean’s beaming face, and a smile flickers across his features. Dean feels flutters run nervously through his gut at the Angel’s expression.

“How old were you when your mother died?” Castiel asks, his tone unbelievably innocent for how personal his question is. Dean almost stops walking entirely out of shock. Wow, this boy is really fucking abrupt.

“Um—I was four…” Dean frowns at the Angel. “Why—”

“I’m very sorry.” The Angel says again. Dean isn’t sure if he’s apologising for how forward he is being, or apologising yet again for the death of Mary Winchester. Either way, a sorry isn’t nearly enough. “My mother also died when I was very young.”

“Oh…” Dean says slowly. “Sorry…”

The Angel smiles sadly and shrugs him off.

“It happened when I was only an infant.” He repeats, his voice somehow both melancholic and calm. “I have no memories of her, only what people have told me. And anyway—just as you have Ellen, I suppose I have people in my own life who fill in for my mother, in a way.”

“Right.” Dean nods. He swallows thickly. His heart is still managing to be hammering against his chest out of nerves. “—Um—it’s this way.” He says, leading Castiel down some narrow stone steps and into a small courtyard with blazing green grass. The Angel smiles humbly and follows him.

“Thank you very much for all of this, Your Highness, it’s very kind of you.” Castiel nods, bowing his head, yet again.

“What?—Oh, no, it’s really not a problem.” Dean shakes his head quickly. “—And please, just call me Dean.”

The Angel looks up at this, and seems taken aback. They have crossed the courtyard, and Dean holds a door open for Castiel as they re-enter the castle.

“—I don’t think I could do that—” Castiel bites his lip, looking alarmed. “It’d be far too disrespectful—especially after all your wonderful hospitality—”

“Seriously, it’s fine.” Dean finds himself laughing. He’s finally beginning to relax slightly around the Angel—who is currently blushing, and it’s almost a relief to Dean. He finds it a refreshing change; his face has been blistered far too red for far too much of the day. It’s nice to see someone else wearing the embarrassed expression for once. 

“That’s very kind—”

“It’s really fine.” Dean reassures. “It’s not even that big of a deal.”

“Thank you very much—Dean.” The Angel smiles as he says Dean’s name, who feels his lips being tugged up by the sound of it on the Angels tongue—something inside of Dean twists happily because of it. He doesn’t think he’s actually appreciated the sound of his own name on other people’s lips before; but listening to it come from Castiel’s subtly accented mouth is oddly satisfying and sends pinpricks dancing up his forearms, strangely delicious. “You may call me Castiel, if you would like.” The Angel says, a little awkwardly—perhaps because he is not so used to being this informal with someone he’s just met.

Dean actually breaks out into a beam at this; and feels bright, happy coils of gold twist excitedly through his veins when Castiel returns the look.

“Thank you, Castiel.” He beams again. “Here, this way is faster.” Dean mutters, leading Castiel toward a passageway that he really knows ought to be kept a secret—especially from strangers to the kingdom such as this Angel—but honestly, with the look Castiel is giving him, Dean really can’t bring himself to care. The two of them duck under a hanging red tapestry with a blazing dragon on its front, and down a narrow corridor, before they arrive in the entrance hall. “Does that mean anything?” He asks, as they head out of the main doors.

Castiel frowns inquisitively at him.

“Your name—does it have a meaning?” Dean clarifies, stepping into the sunlight of the courtyard.

“Oh—yes. Shield of God.” Castiel nods.  _ That’s an odd fucking thing to name your child,  _ Dean thinks, and feels himself frown. “And the alignment of the planets at the time of my birth supposedly means that I am the Angel of Thursdays.”

Dean frowns again. He isn’t a big believer in astrology, but he doesn’t mention this. He wonders absently if reading the stars and planets is a large part of Angel culture. As it is, most of the Human seers who train in these arts seem to be in need of a little more practice, and as a rule, Dean doesn’t believe a word of what any of them say.

“Right.” He nods, leading Castiel out of the large main courtyard. The sunlight bounces of the pale grey stones, making them seem almost white. The whole yard seems to be burning; Dean has to squint to see where he is going as he leads Castiel into the town below the castle.

“What about your name?” The Angel asks.

“It either means valley, or leader of ten.” Dean frowns. He feels his nose wrinkle slightly as he speaks, mostly out of embarrassment. ‘Valley’ is of little comparison to ‘Shield of God’. “Either way, I really don’t think it’s the best name out there.” 

“Were you named after anyone?”

“My mother’s mother.” Dean confirms. “She was called Deanna. Were you named after anyone?”

“Oh, okay.” Castiel nods absently. “That’s nice. I was named after an Angel from long ago, on my mother’s side, I think. Michael doesn’t really talk about it. He said there was a great deal of arguing, when I was born, over what I should be called. My father wanted to call me Cassiel.”

Dean thinks better of mentioning the act that, to him, Cassiel and Castiel sound  _ exactly the fucking same. _

They continue walking down the widest street of the citadel, the one that leads directly up to the castle. Dean puts in extra effort not to trip on the small, cobbled stoning of the road. He’s had enough of embarrassing himself, he thinks.

“Why did they not name you Cassiel, in the end?” Dean asks, ducking under some lilac bunting that has slipped and hangs a little lower than it ought to.

“I don’t know,” Castiel shrugs. “Cassiel means Speed of God. As names go, neither was enormously controversial, and yet apparently the debate got quite heated.” The Angel lets out a little laugh. “Did you ever know her? The grandmother you were named after, that is?”

“I didn’t.” Dean shakes his head. “I never met any of my grandparents.”

“That’s unfortunate,” The Angel frowns.

“I’ve managed so far.” Dean shrugs. “And I don’t miss it, because I never knew what it was like to  _ have  _ one.” He replies honestly.

He leads the Angel though a grey archway decorated with a stone shield and sword at its top, and out into the town set on the lower levels inside the castle walls. Here, it smells of sweet-meats and rotting fruit and woodchip. Dean finds himself staring at Castiel’s wings, yet again—whenever he even glances at them, something inside of him twists sharply in an odd kind of  _ want,  _ and he bites his lip as he stares at each individual feather. These wings are stunningly beautiful—more beautiful than any of the others Dean has seen today—and Dean is left utterly enchanted by each  _ plume _ that forms them.

“Dean?” The Angel asks, turning to glance at Dean. Dean tears his eyes away quickly from Castiel’s wings, which is a surprisingly agonising thing for him to do. “May I ask you something?”

“—Sure.” Dean stammers.

“This morning, in the main hall—why were you staring at me while your father was speaking?”

Dean swallows hard.  _ Shit _ . He had  _ really  _ been hoping Castiel hadn’t noticed.

“Um—” Dean stutters. He looks anywhere but at Castiel, now; choosing instead to examine the market stands surrounding them, feigning interest in a shimmering blue fabric that he realises a moment too late is almost the exact same shade as Castiel’s eyes. “I guess—well, I—I’d never seen an Angel before…”

“Yes, you did manage to make that quite clear when you met my brother, actually.” Castiel says—and is that amusement lining his tone? Dean had honestly been under the impression that most Angels—and this one in particular—weren’t particularly well versed in the realms of humour. Gabriel had seemed to be the only exception—but if Castiel finds the subject of Dean’s embarrassment this morning amusing? It must have been something  _ terrible.  _ “But why were you staring at me in particular? I mean, I may be wrong when I say this, but that’s certainly what it felt like.”

“No, you’re right—” Dean blushes. What’s the purpose of lying, now? “I  _ was  _ looking at you…” He admits, and feels mortified once more.

“Why?” Castiel asks yet again. 

“I don’t know.” Dean lies, shrugging. He looks away, pretending to be far more interested in the blacksmith hammering a sign on faded parchment to his blackened door.

“You could have stared at any Angel. Why me?” The other boy presses. Dean cringes internally.

_ Because you’re fucking beautiful. _

Dean bites his lip. His face is a furious red, scorching his skin, and he can no longer even bring himself to  _ look _ at the Angel still walking next to him. He stares at his feet, scuffing his boiled leather boots on the cobbled streets, staring at the gutters littered with rotting fruit, scraps of cloth sodden with rainwater, soiled by mud, lost and rusted coins, many of them foreign and utterly alien to Dean—anything but at Castiel. 

“And just now—” Castiel continues, and Dean’s heart sinks a little further still. “You were staring at my wings. Why?”

_ Because I get butterflies looking at a single damn  _ feather  _ of yours. _

“—I’ve never really seen wings before—I mean, on birds, I have, obviously,  _ everyone  _ has—but I’ve never—well—” His face is so hot that it actually  _ hurts,  _ now, he can hardly string a sentence together, he’s never been so mortified in his  _ life— _ which considering the day he’s having is  _ really  _ saying something—and Castiel seems to soften slightly, apparently taking pity.

“It doesn’t matter.” The Angel shrugs. “I was only curious.” There is a silence for a moment. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

Dean looks up. Something inside of his chest begins to untie itself.

“Dean.” He corrects. Castiel looks up at him and frowns. “You can call me Dean, remember?”

“Of course…” Castiel smiles. “Dean.”

Dean feels still more happy flutters dance through him, despite his face, still throbbing with embarrassment.

“Can you fly?” He finds himself asking.

“What?” Castiel frowns, turning to Dean again.

Dean swallows hard, embarrassment pulsing through him, once more.

“Sorry—that was a stupid question—I just thought, ‘cause you had wings—”

“It wasn’t stupid.” Castiel shakes his head. Dean’s eyes flicker back up to Castiel’s face—he feels a pulse of hope beat quickly through him. “It’s difficult to phrase, but yes, technically I can. Although, it isn’t really  _ flying  _ flying; it’s more of a—” He sighs. “It’s very hard to explain in your language, sorry. But I assume you mean using my wings as a means of transport…?” Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows at Dean, who nods quickly in confirmation. “Then yes, I suppose that you could say that I can indeed fly. But as I said, it’s not really flying, exactly—at least, not in the way birds do it.”

“So what is it, then?” Dean asks, frowning.

“It’s very difficult to explain.” Castiel laughs honestly again. “It’s much faster than typical flying, as birds do, though. And… honestly, the only similarity is that we use our wings. That’s where it ends, I’m afraid.”

Dean nods slowly.

“Who lives here?” Castiel asks; gesturing to the town around them, to the streets, with colourful market stands set up on the pavements; and the occasional citizen stopping by them to tend to business there. With the now midday sun beating down on them, most people have returned to their homes; and considering the importance of the day, many of the people who live in the lower levels of the city have made their way up to the castle to glimpse the Angels. Those standing round here look at Castiel out of the corners of their eyes with a kind of awed reverence, and Dean feels a swell of an emotion he can’t quite pinpoint at the fact that  _ he  _ is the one who has been gifted with walking with Castiel. It’s not self-indulgent enough to be pride, and it’s too unbelieving to be happiness. What is it that Dean is feeling?

“Oh—well, a lot of people, I guess.” He replies. “Mainly the servants at the castle, as well as shopkeepers and merchants—a lot of travelling merchants settle in the inns and, uh, brothels here for a few weeks at a time—some soldiers, too—quite a lot, actually. The footmen, and all of their families. Guards of lower ranking. As well as anyone just seeking the protection that the castle has to offer. The castle town—well, city—stretches all the way around the castle itself, see, so a lot of people live here. It’s a big place, so it has enough room and more so for all those numbers. Hera was designed for protection, not for prettiness—I’m sure you’ve noticed—so it can house a great number of people. It’s a city, rather than a citadel.”

“Okay.” Castiel nods slowly. “I understand, I think. It is much the same in my home—not the protectionism, but certainly a huge number of Angels live within the city. So, you and your father and brother live in the castle itself—does it have any other permanent residents?”

“Oh, of course.” Dean nods. “Loads. All my father’s advisers, all the members of the council; all the most important knights—they all live there. And all their families. And many people of noble blood. As well as some physicians, I think—father likes to have them close at hand—he’s a little paranoid about his health, and me and Sammy’s. Sees danger round every corner. And a whole bunch of the most important servants to us live in the castle as well. But yeah, a lot of people. I don’t know exact numbers, though I guess I should—it’s been three years since the last census, John and Bobby made me memorise all the figures. It was torture, seriously.”

Castiel nods again—and is that the ghost of a smile twitching at his features?

“Where should we go next?” The Angel asks him.

“I don’t know—where do you want to go?”

Castiel laughs. “I don’t live here, Dean. I’ve never been here before.  _ You _ should probably show  _ me.”  _

Dean blushes yet again.

“Right—of course,” He bites his lip, having to stop himself from frowning at the amused look on Castiel’s face, reminding himself to remain friendly no matter how embarrassed he gets. “There are some woods and forests surrounding the castle, too, and some fields—I like to go there to get some peace and quiet, or go riding.”

“You ride?” Castiel smiles.

“I do.” Dean finds himself grinning. “Do you?”

“No.” The Angel admits. “Angels don’t, usually—and I’ve never really had the chance to, anyway. It’d be rather difficult, what with the surrounding mountains.”

“Oh, that’s awful,” Dean frowns. What could be worse than not being able to go riding? It’s Dean’s only escape, whenever the world gets too much—the sweet smell of horses and their paddocks, the sound of their hooves and breaths as they go faster and faster, the wind rushing in his ears, the world flitting by and disappearing behind Dean with each passing moment.

Castiel laughs softly.

“Yes, I suppose it is a shame. Is it any fun, riding?”

“It’s brilliant.” Dean grins, genuinely. “I could teach you some time, if you want.”

“I’d like that.” Castiel nods. His eyes are bright.

Dean actually thinks his heart starts singing with joy.

“Great.” Dean beams. “So—going to see the woods—would that be okay?”

“That sounds very nice.” The Angel replies.

Dean leads Castiel out of the enormous castle gates, over the drawbridge wider than houses and roads, and onto the surrounding grounds.

“What’s it like, living up in the mountains?” He asks. It’s something that Dean has always wondered; and now he feels desperate to know.

Castiel looks thoughtful for a while before he answers.

“That’s difficult for me to say.” He replies honestly. “I mean, I’ve lived there my whole life, so I don’t really know any different. It’s just normality for me. But nice, I suppose. Our surroundings are very beautiful. The mountains make a lovely setting”

Dean nods. “That makes sense—okay, what are the buildings like?”

“What do you mean?” 

“The architecture—what’s that like? Do you guys have castles, too? Or is it totally different to down here?”

Castiel laughs. It sounds like music to Dean. 

“Yes, we have castles.” He confirms.

“What’re they like? And how does that work—how do they actually interact, like, with the mountains themselves? How do they not fall off the rocks?—I get it if that sounds stupid—”

“—It doesn’t.” The Angel smiles kindly again—and is that affection that he regards Dean with? Dean’s heart trips over itself, hoping, praying, that it is. “Well, our castles are generally built at the very tops of the mountains. They took a great many centuries to build, I am told, and simply expanded over the years rather than being built once, and that being the end of things. The architecture itself is very elegant. Because I live in Evadne—which is the oldest of the Angel Kingdoms—parts of the castles there, and the palace at the centre of the kingdom—these are also often carved into the faces of the mountains, themselves. There are tunnels and rooms and ancient halls that reach deep inside the heart of the rock.”

“Wow.” Dean says, simply. “That sounds awesome.”

“Yes, it is very beautiful.” Castiel nods.

“How does farming work, up there? How do Angels get that done?—Wait, do Angels even  _ eat?  _ Angels  _ can _ eat, right?”

Castiel bursts out laughing, at this.

“Yes, Angels eat, Dean.” He confirms, beaming in amusement at Dean.

“Hey—don’t laugh! How was I supposed to know?”

“Well, living things  _ do  _ eat. It’s sort of how creatures work, after all.”

“But Angels—well, you guys are—”

“—Living, breathing creatures that need food, just like Humans.” Castiel chuckles. Dean rolls his eyes as the two of them enter the forest, together. “And farming Angels usually settle on the lower parts of the mountains. Either that, or in the valleys inbetween them. The earth is very fertile, there, many of the mountains were once volcanic, so it’s quite convenient, really.”

The trees grow slightly denser and the ground more uneven as the pair make their way further into the forest.

“Okay,” Dean nods in understanding. “So how do you guys get about the mountains? And transport stuff?”

“Generally, we walk. Or fly, as you would put it. But the Angels who farm also transport many of their goods by animal, too.”

“It’s kind of strange for me to think that some Angels are actually  _ farmers.” _

“Why is it strange?”

“I don’t know. It’s just not the sort of profession you’d imagine an  _ Angel  _ having.”

“Why not?” Castiel asks, expression puzzled.

“Well, you guys are all so  _ noble, _ for one thing.”

“Farming isn’t noble?”

“—I didn’t  _ say _ that—”

“Then you  _ thought _ it, at least?” Castiel frowns questioningly at Dean. “It was very much implicit in your statement.”

“Well, yeah.” Dean admits. “But it’s kind of true. It’s not the most regal of all jobs, you’ve got to admit.”

“Aren’t all professions regal?” Castiel frowns.

“Cleaning toilets probably isn’t.” Dean laughs, but stops when he sees Castiel glaring at him. “Oh, come on—some occupations definitely aren’t. In fact,  _ most  _ definitely aren’t.”

“So which professions are, and which aren’t, by your definition?”

“Well, cleaning, like I said, definitely isn’t regal, or noble, or any of that shit. And I don’t think farming is, either.”

“Why not?”

“You hardly hear fairy tales about it, do you?”

“And something has to be romanticised into the form of a  _ story  _ for you to respect it?”

“No, but—”

“So what’s wrong with cleaning? And what of farming?”

“Well, it’s  _ serving _ people.”

“So being a King or a Queen isn’t regal, either, then?”

“What? No—” Dean frowns. “When did I say that? Ever? Being a King is about as regal as it gets!”

“Being a King is about serving.”

“It’s about  _ ruling.” _

“It’s about guiding.” Castiel says firmly.  _ “And  _ serving. The whole point of being a leader is to serve the people you rule over.”

“It’s not—”

“What else could it be about? If it’s not about serving, then the whole point of it is commanding others needlessly—and illegitimately, I think. If it doesn’t benefit the people, then it’s not leading, or guiding, or serving; it’s forceful. If it  _ does  _ benefit the people, then you’re doing your job. You’re serving them. ‘Ruling’, as you use it, apparently simply means getting your people to do whatever you wish, and to idolise you—without any real cause to do so, as well. To rule is to serve, and if any King or Queen isn’t acting constantly for the good of their people; then they’ve failed. And so it follows that if serving is undignified, being a King or Queen is the most undignified position anyone could be in.”

Dean is kind of stumped, at this. More than anything, he can’t help but think of how perfectly it is that Castiel can speak a language foreign to him; as well as fucking construct an  _ argument  _ in it.

“Fine.” He admits, jaw clenching. Dean doesn’t like being beat. Castiel lets out a triumphant breath. “Is it true that Angels can live forever?” He asks, changing the subject.

Castiel laughs again. “No.” He shakes his head. “Why do you think that?”

“People say it. A lot.”

“Right.” Castiel shrugs. “Well, no. It’s not true. We can and do have very long lives compared to Humans, but we certainly don’t live forever.”

“How long is very long?”

“Centuries.” Castiel states again, as though this is completely normal. “And a great many of them.”

Holy shit— _ centuries?!  _ And Dean is supposed to  _ marry  _ one of these creatures?!

“Seriously?!”

“Yes,” Castiel confirms, frowning at him. “Why would I lie about something as trivial as a lifespan?”

Dean doesn’t really know how to react to the Angel. Castiel is impossibly awkward—but then so is Dean whenever he’s around the guy, so is he really in any kind of position to judge?

“So how old is your brother, then?”

“He’s a few centuries old, I believe. A little over two centuries old—that’s it. He only became King after the death of my father.”

“When was that?”

“A little while after your Demon attack.” Castiel shrugs.

“And how old are you?” Dean frowns.

“I’m seventeen.”

“Seventeen? As in, years old?”

“Yes, Dean, as in years.”

“That’s a fucking gigantic age gap between you and your brother.”

“To Humans, certainly.” The Angel admits. “But remember, Angels can live for many, many centuries. So it’s really not much of a gap, at all, to us.”

“How come your brother doesn’t  _ look  _ like he’s hundreds of years old?”

“Well, when an Angel turns twenty-one, they are allowed to decide if they wish to live a far more mortal life, or live, as most Angels do, for a great many more years than that. If they choose the second option, the aging process is slowed by an inconceivable amount.” 

“I didn’t know that.” Dean states, slightly dumbfounded. It fits in with much of the lore he heard, surrounding the Angels, and it’s interesting for Dean to see where myth ends and facts begin, where it is that the people who told him stories of the Angels got everything they told him. “So—after you’re twenty-one—do you ever get to change your mind? Can you switch sides, if you want?”

“Not that I am aware.” Castiel chuckles. “Although, maybe I’m wrong.”

“And what are you supposed to do for all that  _ time?” _

“Probably the same sorts of things Humans do in  _ their  _ time on this earth.” Castiel laughs. “Just slower.”

“And is it true that your wings mean different things?” Dean asks.

“What?” Castiel frowns over at Dean.

“Is it true that an Angel’s wings say different things about them?”

“Well, the size of an Angel’s wings are supposed to indicate how good a warrior and fighter the Angel is.”

“Really? Because your brother—Michael—his wings are fucking  _ massive.” _

“Yes, they are.” The Angel squints at Dean. “And Michael is a very powerful warrior. What’s your point?”

“Nothing—I was just making an observation.” Dean shrugs. “Yours aren’t nearly as big as his—why is that?”

“Mine aren’t fully grown yet.” Castiel frowns, sounding somewhat offended by Dean’s comment. “So no, of course they’re not.”

Dean winces.

“—Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.” He stammers quickly. “So when  _ will  _ they be fully grown?” He asks.

“They’ll probably have a growth spurt, then stop altogether, when I’m around eighteen. Twenty or twenty-one, at the latest.”

“Okay.” Dean nods. “What about colour?” He asks.

“What do you mean?” Castiel squints at Dean again, and if Dean is honest, he finds it slightly amusing. 

“What does colour mean, in an Angel’s wings?” He questions.

“Nothing, as far as I know.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“Well, not to cause offense, Dean, but you’re not exactly an Angel, so how  _ would  _ you know?”

“My mom always used to tell me.”

“Then I suspect it’s the stuff of myth.”

“So you’re saying my mom didn’t know about this stuff?” He frowns. Something raw and unhappy pangs inside his chest, taking quick offense.

“I’m saying your mother wasn’t an Angel.”

“And the only people who  _ can  _ know about Angels,  _ are  _ Angels? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Not exactly, no—”

“It sounds like you are.” Dean glares. He feels frustration bubble angrily through him, and he is almost scowling at Castiel—although he isn’t certain why he’s so offended by the idea that the Angel doubts his mother’s knowledge on Castiel’s own race.

“Why are you so insulted by me saying that wing colour doesn’t mean anything about an Angel?”

“My mother studied your people, you know—don’t talk like she  _ made it up—” _

“I’m not.” Castiel glares. “You think she can’t have been wrong about it?”

“I’m not saying that—”

“You most certainly are.”

“No, what I’m  _ saying,  _ is—” Dean, exasperated, is struggling to find his words.

“Why are you getting so angry over this?”

“Because you’re just acting like—” Dean sighs, cutting himself off, his jaw clenching tightly.

“Acting like what?”

Dean scowls over to Castiel.

“You know what? My father was right— _ I  _ was right—you guys are  _ so  _ self-righteous!”

“What do you mean by ‘You guys’?” Castiel takes an astounded step back.

_ “Angels!”  _ Dean spits. “You’re all sanctimonious dicks!”

“How have I been acting that way?” Castiel frowns, his expression and tone hardening. “How have my _race_ ever behaved in that way?”

“Try thirteen years ago!” Dean finds himself shouting. “When my mom was slaughtered, and your people did fuck all to stop it!”

“The Angels didn’t know the attack was going to happen—how  _ could _ we have known?! You think every one of us is a Seer?!”

Dean ignores Castiel’s response, his blood turning to fire in his veins.

“And then—when my father asked for help from you, none came! Even though you had  _ promised  _ to come to Humanity’s aid, when we called!”

“We said we would come to Humanity’s aid, when you  _ needed  _ it!” Castiel shouts back. “Your father wanted  _ revenge!  _ Not help!”

“He deserved to be able to get justice!  _ We  _ deserved to get justice!”

“How could more bloodshed  _ possibly  _ be considered justice?!”

“How  _ couldn’t  _ it?!” Dean bellows back.

Castiel scowls at him, his jaw clenching.

“I was  _ so _ right.” Dean laughs hollowly, bitterly. “I knew you people were self-satisfied  _ fucking liars _ .”

“How are we liars?” Castiel enquires, incredulously.

“You didn’t help, and you promised you would.”

“We weren’t  _ obliged  _ to help you. We didn’t owe you anything. We  _ don’t _ owe you anything.” Castiel bites. Dean glowers at the Angel, furiously. 

“You fuck around, up in the mountains, being haughty and self-righteous, while the race you  _ swore  _ to protect is being slaughtered right beneath you!”

“You’re slaughtering each other just as much as anything else!” Castiel snarls, and Dean’s jaw clenches. “Why should we protect a race from  _ itself?!  _ You are all utterly beside yourselves, obsessed with destroying one another as much as you are the Demon enemy!”

“What the fuck do you—”

“And while we’re  _ ‘up in the mountains’  _ as you so ignorantly put it, Dean, believe it or not, we’re having problems of our own!”

“Angels having problems of their own?!” Dean scoffs, still glowering over at Castiel.

“Yes!” Castiel shouts. “We have had—and continue to have—our own problems, you know! But apparently, you’re too self-indulgent to realise it! And I don’t know if that’s you, or all Humans, but the  _ assumption  _ that at any given moment, Angels ought to be ready to jump down from our home in the mountains and help all of you, is—”

“Is  _ what?”  _

“Ridiculous! Self-obsessed!  _ Impossibly  _ self indulgent! We have our own lives and causes to attend to! Helping the Humans is  _ charitable,  _ not mandatory—and our own issues at the time of Hera’s attack were far more significant than you seem able to comprehend!”

Dean can see nothing but red.

“Are you calling me  _ stupid,  _ now?” 

“If you behave stupidly, then I hardly have any need to label you so.” Castiel’s jaw clenches. “You’ve already made the summation of your character abundantly clear to me.”

Dean could honestly  _ punch  _ the guy.

“Then tell me what the fuck these  _ oh so terrible  _ problems the Angels had  _ were _ !” Dean yells, and Castiel’s face hardens, as though he doesn’t want to answer this. They glare, angrily, at each other, and Dean feels a biting urge to look away—the Angel’s eyes are  _ terrifying  _ right now; a storm is swirling in his irises, they are bright and horrible and penetrating, and Dean senses he’s touched upon something of a raw nerve. He doesn’t back down, though. Call him stubborn; but Dean  _ never  _ backs down. Even though Castiel looks pretty fucking frightening. 

“I want to go back.” Castiel says, quietly. “Take me back, please.”

“You can find your own way.” Dean spits. “Just follow the fucking path, it’s not  _ that  _ difficult. If someone as obviously stupid as  _ me  _ could work it out, then surely  _ you  _ can.”

The Angel glares at Dean, one more time—his wings flare slightly behind him; which, if Dean is honest, is  _ really _ fucking terrifying—before he turns on his heel and stomps his way back up the path, back towards the castle.

Dean watches him stalk off with a sinking feeling settling thickly in his heart.

_ Nice one, you fucking asshole;  _ Dean thinks to himself.

So much for marrying one of these guys.


	4. Understanding

**“Grace is what matters. In anything. Especially life, especially growth, tragedy, pain, love, death. About people, that’s what matters… it keeps you from destroying things too foolishly; it sort of keeps you alive and keeps you open for more understanding.”**

**\- Jeff Buckley**

 

 

_  
“Castiel!”  _ Anna greets as Castiel enters his chambers. She is seated on the end of his bed, which is covered with bright orange sheets that seem almost on fire, the colour of the sun. Anna looks as though she has just been deep in conversation with Michael, who is stood opposite her, arms folded. Both of them are wearing expressions that Castiel recognises, and he knows instantly that he won’t be able to ask what it is they were speaking of just before he arrived in the room.  _ “We’ve been waiting for you!” _ She exclaims, standing up.  _ “How were your introductions with the young Prince?” _

Castiel scowls at nothing in particular and sits down onto his bed, pinching the fabric of the sheets, rough with thick threads of gold, between his fingertips in frustration.

He is still burning from the argument that he and Dean had; he feels unrest simmering hotly inside of him—Michael can sense it already, Castiel can tell simply by the way in which he is standing—and any second now he is going to instruct Castiel to control himself, to remind him of his heritage and their beliefs on self-restraint—but all Castiel’s blood is magma inside of him and he  _ hates  _ Dean for all of his unkind words in the forest. 

_ “…They didn’t go well, then?” _ His sister asks cautiously, moving softly over to him and sitting slowly back down onto the bed, sinking slightly into the mattress. Castiel looks away. He dislikes his sister’s wary, gentle tones, the way that she is holding herself next to him, as though she feels he may explode at any moment. He almost  _ glares _ at the tender, pale hand that she places carefully on his shoulder.

_“I said that he’d hate me.”_ Castiel mumbles, still staring at the ground. Anna sighs next to him, and in the corner of his eye, Castiel can make out Michael’s composure shift somewhat. Michael takes a step towards Castiel and his sister, standing in sunlight beaming in from an open window.

_ “He doesn’t hate you, I’m sure of it—” _

_ “He does.” _ Castiel replies, looking up at Anna. Her deep, ruby wings twitch slightly as she frowns thoughtfully at him.  _ “He does.” _ Castiel repeats. And then the anger simmering below the surface of his mind begins to bubble and boil again, and Castiel clenches his fists tightly around the sheets he hadn’t realised he’s been holding. _ “And if he doesn’t, then  _ I  _ hate  _ him.”

Michael frowns from where he stands above them; but it is restrained, like he wants to comment, but is reminding himself not to.

_ “And the engagement—?”  _ Michael asks, after a lengthy, awkward pause. Castiel looks up at his oldest brother. He can feel himself peering earnestly at Michael, a thoughtful frown twitching at his face. A similarly sombre expression settles on Michael’s features, and Anna begins to mirror it.

_ “I don’t want to.”  _ Castiel mumbles, his voice very small.

_ “Okay.”  _ Michael nods, and that’s all he says. His tone is flat and emotionless, his expression blank; Castiel wishes that his brother would snap at him and tell him to stop being so selfish, to go through with the engagement for the benefit of their kind; but he does no such thing. His silence, in a way, is worse than a thousand angry reproaches.  _ “I understand.”  _ Michael nods—except no, he doesn’t—and Castiel loathes the thought that his brother is settling with feeling disappointment in Castiel, rather than anything else—even rather than anger.  _ “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.” _

_ “I don’t want to.”  _ Castiel repeats. He looks down. He doesn’t want to have to look at his siblings’ dissatisfaction with him at this time. He knows that Anna must be wearing the same kind of expression as Michael is, and the thought is more than he can bear.

_ “Anael,”  _ Michael says, and Castiel winces at his flat tone; at his using Anna’s formal name. Anna snaps her head up to her brother, as though she is being called to attention, and Michael’s gaze is settled on her completely now, never once does he flit his eyes back over to Castiel.  _ “I think it would be best if we continued discussing those earlier matters in my quarters.”  _ He pauses.  _ “Would that be a problem?” _

_ “No, Michael.”  _ Anna bows her head slightly. Castiel bites at his lip, averting his gaze.  _  “I’ll be there in just a moment.” _

Michael nods curtly and exits, and Castiel’s body relaxes—or crumples—and he stares down at the floor, feeling remarkably broken.

_ “Castiel—” _

_ “I didn’t want to let him down…” _

_ “And you haven’t.”  _ Anna replies firmly, her voice as lowered as his.

Castiel looks up at his sister. He is craving her reassurance, her comforting smiles, but he wonders if even these would be enough to settle the ugly storm swirling in his gut.

_ “We gave you a choice, remember?”  _ Anna asks; she’s raising her eyebrows at Castiel and peering firmly at him, and Castiel wants to squirm away from her gaze, but he doesn’t.

_ “I remember.”  _ He nods. Because when Anna asks questions like this, rhetorical or not, she prefers them to be answered. 

_ “And the choice wasn’t empty, much as you may think it was. We gave it to you for a reason. We didn’t want you to be forced into this— _ Michael _ didn’t want you to be forced into this. So he’s not disappointed. Nobody will be. Your engagement wasn’t the purpose of the visit, and, if things go well today, relations with the Humans will be ironed out and in good condition for all the council meetings to come, anyway. So don’t worry, little brother.”  _ She ruffles his hair softly and smiles at him, and Castiel accepts the offer of the hug that she gives him, sighing against her shoulder. But he doesn’t miss the worried look in his sister’s eye as she exits the room—cannot ignore the uneasy way she bites at her lip when she glances back at him then back at the hallway in front of her, on her way out.

And Castiel knows he has caused a disappointment, that he  _ is  _ a disappointment.

Gabriel enters Castiel’s chambers a while after this. Castiel has spent the time staring at the floor, fumbling with his own hands nervously and he finds himself unable to pinpoint the emotion squirming uncomfortably in his gut.

_ “So, I heard things with Hera’s young prince didn’t go all that well, today.”  _ Gabriel’s voice makes Castiel start slightly, and he looks up to his brother, heart sinking with still more exhaustion at the day’s affairs.

_ “Yes.”  _ Castiel nods stiffly.  _ “You could say that.” _

Gabriel’s facial expression is closest to that of a grimace, Castiel thinks, as his older brother seats himself on a chair in the corner of the room, facing Castiel’s bed. The red leather covering the seat creaks slightly as he sits down.

_ “You spoke to Michael, then?” _

_ “That I did.”  _ Gabriel confirms. He absently pulls a feather out of his wings and drops it nonchalantly to the floor. Castiel winces slightly at the motion.  _ “And Anna.” _

_ “I’m sorry,”  _ Castiel starts, but Gabriel’s heaving, needlessly exaggerated sigh interrupts him.

_“Don’t be. Really.”_ His older brother shrugs. He glances down at the feather he discarded on the floor on a few moments previously; regarding it thoughtfully, before sighing again and picking it up. _“It’s probably best not to litter, eh?”_ Gabriel asks, cocking a grin in Castiel’s direction and raising his eyebrows slightly at the younger Angel. Castiel feigns a smile in response.

_ “Yes, I suppose that would be for the best.” _

Gabriel nods, fiddling with the feather for a few moments, before flicking his eyes back up at Castiel.

_ “So, what happened?”  _ He asks, spinning the feather between his thumb and forefinger. Castiel doesn’t want to answer, but Gabriel’s silence is oddly pressing; and Castiel watches as his older brother shifts in his chair, settling further into it, the wood and leather squeaking once more beneath him. Castiel thinks, instead of thinking of a reply to his brother, that it’s probably a fairly old item of furniture. Gabriel continues to gaze steadily at Castiel, curling his fingers around the arms of the chair, his eyebrows still raised in casual curiosity.

_ “We got in a fight.”  _ Castiel shrugs. Because it’s true. And because it’s simpler—and far less frustrating—to say this; rather than labouring over the full story. Gabriel doesn’t seem particularly satisfied by his answer, and leans forward fractionally in his chair—but it is enough to prompt Castiel to say more.  _ “And I stormed off. And I don’t want to marry him. He’s—”  _ Castiel sighs, struggling for his words.  _ “Awful.”  _ He finishes, spitting these last syllables out.

_ “He’s a Human.”  _ Gabriel scoffs.  _ “And maybe it’s because the two of you are too similar. You always  _ did  _ have a shitty temper.” _

Castiel decides to ignore his older brother.

_ “And wait,”  _ Gabriel continues, leaning back again and resting his foot on his other knee.  _ “Is this a  _ fight  _ fight, or one of your shouting matches?” _

_ “It was a shouting match.”  _ Castiel admits sheepishly.

_ “So you didn’t even throw any punches?”  _ Gabriel grins.

_ “No.”  _ Castiel frowns at his older brother in moderate confusion, and Gabriel snorts with laughter.

_ “Well, I  _ guess  _ that’s something of a good thing, at least, although far less entertaining.” _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ “Think of the songs that could have been written about the two princes who were to be betrothed to each other and instead became mortal enemies! Think of the poems about the Sarim Castiel breaking the Human prince Dean’s nose!”  _ Gabriel exclaims, almost with delight. “Finally,  _ that would be a poem I’d be happy to read.” _

_ “I meant, when you say it’s a good thing I didn’t punch him, what do you mean?”  _ Castiel groans.

_ “Come on, Castiel, are you really that dull? And for once, I don’t mean boring, I mean  _ dim.  _ We’d be on  _ really  _ shitty terms with the Humans if one of our own beat up their favourite prince.” _

Castiel rolls his eyes.

_ “You don’t think you’d win in a fight with him, Cassie?”  _ Gabriel laughs, his head tipping back slightly.

_ “I don’t think I’d  _ want  _ to fight.”  _ Castiel replies, deadpanning more than a little. 

_ “And that’s probably why he’d win, you know.”  _ Gabriel smirks, but Castiel looks away.  _ “If you wouldn’t fight, how could you possibly win?” _

Castiel is relieved to see Anna entering his quarters cautiously, peering round the door before she actually does so.

_ “Are you feeling alright, Castiel?”  _ Anna asks, giving a small, worried frown in Castiel’s direction as she speaks.

_ “Yes.”  _ Castiel nods. He tries to refrain from sighing as much as possible. 

_ “Is Gabriel behaving himself?”  _ Anna enquires, amusement lacing both her features and her tone, though she makes a rather pointed look in Gabriel’s direction—one that Castiel doesn’t miss.

_ “What do you mean, behaving—?!”  _ Gabriel starts in protest, but Castiel thinks it prudent to cut him off.

_ “Gabriel is being fine.”  _ He shrugs. He glances over to his brother, who grins and winks conspiratorially over to him, although Castiel knows that this is only designed to exasperate their sister.

_ “Good.”  _ Anna smiles, choosing to ignore Gabriel—a wise decision, Castiel feels. 

_ “Is Michael angry with me?”  _ Castiel asks—and a bitter taste forms in his mouth with the words; he loathes how childish and anxious they sound, how shyly they form on his tongue.

_ “No, little one.”  _ Anna hushes, brushing her knuckles against the fold of Castiel’s wing and sitting so close next to him that there is almost no space between them. Castiel appreciates the contact.  _ “He is not angry.” _

_ “But how could he not be?”  _ Castiel asks. He swallows thinly, worrying at his lip again. Anna tilts her head to the side and swats his hands away from each other when they threaten to begin fumbling desperately with the sheets of his bed once more. Castiel glances down and notices that in his earlier unease he tore some of the material, and sighs resignedly.

_ “He’s not.”  _ Anna repeats.  _ “Michael’s—well, he’s got a great deal to worry about, just now,” _

_ “—And I’ve just added to his worries.” _

_ “That’s not what she meant.”  _ Gabriel cuts across, frowning, and pushing himself a little further forward on his elbows from where he sits.

_ “Then what  _ did  _ you mean?”  _ Castiel asks, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he looks up at Anna.

_ “I meant,”  _ Anna starts, rubbing her temples with her thumb and forefinger,  _ “that he’s been a little distracted with— _ things,” Anna bites her lip as she says this part,  _ “and if you felt as though he was being cold, it would’ve largely been down to those  _ other  _ things. Not you. It really wasn’t because of you. He’s upset—but only because affairs are going to be a little more difficult now, honestly. But more than anything else, he wants you to be happy, so always remember that, Castiel—we all do—and if engagement to Hera’s Prince isn’t what you want, then Michael—and the rest of us—will be fine with it. Okay?” _

_ “Okay.”  _ Castiel nods, but it feels a little weak.

_ “Things are going to be pretty toasty at the feast this evening, I can tell.”  _ Gabriel grins, rubbing his hands together gleefully. Anna’s eyes immediately dart up to Gabriel’s face, and she glares daggers at him—if Castiel didn’t know his brother any better, he would say that Gabriel seemed completely unperturbed by the look Anna was casting in his direction; but as it is, Castiel notices the uncomfortable twitch of Gabriel’s wings and awkward shift in his posture as he grins back at Anna, attempting a look of relative innocence.

_ “Gabriel,”  _ Anna starts, voice steady and warning, but Castiel has only just processed Gabriel’s comment and turns to his sister anxiously.

_ “Wait, feast?”  _ He asks, worry and confusion twisting his face into even more of a frown.

_ “Yes, feast.”  _ Anna confirms. It does nothing to ease the scowl lacing Castiel’s features.

_ “ _ Feast _?”  _ He repeats, and he hears Gabriel snort a laugh opposite him, and turns to glare at his brother, instead.

_ “Well, that’s what she said, little brother.”  _ Gabriel grins. Castiel feels his jaw clenching in frustration.

_ “Yes, but why wasn’t I told about it?” _

Gabriel shrugs, looking unconcerned. It flares still more frustration inside of Castiel.

_ “I don’t know.”  _ He waves his hand distractedly.  _ “Someone forgot to tell you, I guess.” _

“You  _ were supposed to tell him.”  _ Anna sighs at Gabriel, who grins and sits back on his chair again.

_ “Well then, I guess  _ I  _ was the one who forgot to tell you.”  _ He chuckles.

_ “It would certainly seem that way, yes.”  _ Castiel attempts not to bite his words out to his older brother; but it’s proving very difficult—he feels tired and out of place, away from home and void of all warmth and familiarity—Michael is angry or disappointed or both with him, he feels alien in Hera and drained from the day’s exertions and still extraordinarily frustrated because of he and Dean’s argument earlier. Castiel doesn’t want to be patient, even with Gabriel.

_ “Well, there’s a feast tonight, Castiel.”  _ Gabriel mock-informs his younger brother, who has to press his lips firmly together and has to look away.  _ “Oh, come on, don’t be like that!”  _ Gabriel exclaims, smirking somewhat.  _ “Better late than never, wouldn’t you agree?” _

_ “I suppose.”  _ Castiel sighs, nodding absently. _ “What’s the feast for?” _

_ “It must be to celebrate our arrival.”  _ Anna shrugs. 

_ “And who will be going?”  _ Castiel asks, apprehensively—he can already tell from Anna’s expression that he isn’t going to like her answer.

_ “Your Prince Dean will definitely be there, if that’s what you’re asking, Cassie.”  _ Gabriel grins, hooking his foot over his other knee confidently once again.

_ “Shut up,”  _ Castiel growls, but his brother only smirks further, raising his hands in a sign of surrender that Castiel knows is only designed to infuriate.

_ “Why? That’s what you were asking, wasn’t it?” _

_“I said, shut up, Gabriel.”_ Castiel glowers in his older brother’s direction. _“And he’s not_ my _Prince Dean, thank you—if you remember correctly; I said_ _that I don’t want to become betrothed to him, any more—”_

_ “Yes, Castiel, we remember.”  _ Anna nods, and she speaks in a maddeningly patronising tone.  _ “Gabriel is only trying to vex you. Don’t let him.” _

Gabriel grins at Castiel and winks once again.

_ “What time is the feast going to be?”  _ Castiel asks, looking back up to his sister. Anna shrugs and glances outside the window.

_ “Some time in the evening. I’ll check with Michael. But you’d best get ready, Castiel—and yes, the young Human Prince will be there, I’m sorry. Just—try to repair things with him, maybe?” _

Castiel glowers at his sister and stirs, about to make a response, but Anna interrupts him before he can.

_ “I’m not asking you to reconsider your decision. I understand—I really do,”  _ Anna chides, and Castiel has to hold back a scoff in her direction. She really doesn’t understand, and how could she ever?  _ “But don’t you think it’d be for the best if you were at least on  _ talking  _ terms with the future King of Hera?”  _ She asks, raising her eyebrows; it’s another one of her rhetorical questions, the ones that Castiel knows he is supposed to answer to prove his sister right, and so he does. 

_ “Yes.”  _ He nods.

_ “It’d smooth things out between the Humans and us.”  _ Anna speaks softly.  _ “There’s already enough tensions and distrust; I’m sure you’ll agree.” _

Castiel nods shortly and looks down.

_ “It’s okay, little brother.”  _ Anna brushes her fingers through some of Castiel’s feathers, and Castiel finds himself at least slightly comforted by the touch.  _ “You’re feeling better?”  _ She asks softly.

_ “I suppose.”  _ Castiel nods shortly, sighing.

_ “Good.”  _ Anna smiles. She pats his wing one last time before standing up, tucking a loose strand of her brilliant red hair behind her ear.  _ “Now, Gabriel and I are going to leave you in peace.”  _ She speaks over Gabriel’s voice when he tries to protest, at this.  _ “And we’ll see you at dinner. You should prepare for it, now, Castiel—and I’ll come by in a short while to tell you when exactly it’s going to be. I’ll ask Michael for you.”  _ She smiles, and Castiel nods gratefully.  _ “It’ll be in the Main Hall—that is, the hall we were in earlier today.”  _ Anna gives Gabriel a look that makes him stand up from where he is seated, too.  _ “I’ll see you this evening.”  _ She smiles once more and ruffles his hair before leaving. 

_ “Come by my room if you get bored, Castiel.”  _ Gabriel smiles, genuinely, and Castiel returns the look, appreciating the warmth and comfort Gabriel is at least providing him.  _ “I’m just down the corridor. We can just talk, if you want.”  _

Castiel nods thankfully at his brother, who grins and claps Castiel on his shoulder before leaving after Anna. Castiel glances back at the leather seat of the chair his brother had been sitting on. Gabriel has left the coppery coloured feather on its surface.

 

* * *

 

 

_ “Castiel?”  _ Anna knocks gently at Castiel’s door before peering her head cautiously round the deep ruddy-brown frame.  _ “May I come in?” _

_ “Yes.”  _ Castiel smiles, although it feels more than slightly feigned.  _ “Of course.” _

Castiel’s smile—insincere or not—falls when he sees Michael enter behind their sister.

_ “Michael—”  _ He starts, standing up from where he has been seated on his bed, but Michael raises his hand, and Castiel fall militantly silent.

_ “There is no need to apologise, Castiel.”  _ Michael says slowly. It sounds rather like these words are scripted; especially with the slightly forced, pained expression and tone that Michael holds. Along with this, Anna is staring expectantly at their older brother, which tells Castiel that she has  _ definitely  _ instructed the High King to attempt to reassure Castiel.  _ “We said you had a choice before you went into all of this, and we were telling the truth, and you’ve made your decision.” _

_ “But—” _

_ “You’ve made your decision.”  _ Michael stares firmly at Castiel, leaving no space for an argument.  _ “And we’ve explained that it’s okay.” _

_ “I’m sorry.”  _ Castiel says—because really, what else is there to say?

_ “Don’t.”  _ Michael instructs, shortly.  _ “Now, John Winchester has informed me that there is to be a feast tonight,” _

_ “I know.”  _ Castiel nods.

_“Good. And I’m glad to see that you’ve got ready for it.”_ Michael indicates vaguely to Castiel, who bristles slightly at the gesture, although he isn’t sure why. _“I will inform the king of your decision tonight.”_ Castiel presses his lips together and stares at the floor. _“There is no need to fret, Castiel.”_ Michael speaks gently now; it makes Castiel lift his head up to face his brother properly. Michael kneels down in front of his youngest brother, and Castiel is infinitely grateful for his change in tone. _“No need to fret.”_ Michael repeats. He brushes his huge wing against Castiel’s softly, which is an odd contradiction, considering its colossal size. 

_ “Michael,”  _ Castiel starts cautiously.

_ “I’ve said there’s no need to apologise.” _

_ “No, this is something else.”  _ Castiel shakes his head.

_ “What, Castiel?” _

_ “Our wings—do they—”  _ Castiel thinks of what Dean asked him earlier that day, of the foolishly simple question that caused such a ridiculous argument.  _ “Does the colour of our wings say anything about us?” _

_ “What do you mean, Castiel?”  _ Michael asks, a curious frown twisting itself across his features.

_ “Dean said—earlier today, while we were walking—he said that his mother had always told him that the colours of an Angel’s wings said something different about that Angel’ character and future, or words to that effect, at least—and I told him he was wrong—and he got offended, but that’s not the point—but is it? True, I mean. Is it true?” _

_ “Castiel, is that what your fight with Dean was about?”  _ Anna asks, raising her eyebrows at Castiel and scoffing slightly. Castiel scowls over to her.  _ “I think Gabriel was right, Michael—Castiel  _ is  _ too young for this—and so is Dean, for that matter—they’re effectively  _ children _!”  _ She giggles teasingly.

Castiel glares even more scornfully over to his older sister. 

_ “—Wait—Gabriel said that?”  _ He asks, feeling a twist of confusion in his gut.

_ “Yes.”  _ Michael confirms.  _ “And he was right, as far as I can tell.”  _ Michael’s face twists with amusement, and Castiel glowers at him.

_“Did you honestly_ _get into a fight over_ that _?”_ Anna chuckles, and Castiel sighs and ruffles his hair frustratedly with one of his hands.

_ “Yes.”  _ He nods.  _ “And could you just tell me if he was right, or not? That’s what I asked, isn’t it?” _

Michael sighs and sits back on his heels. Anna stands beside the bed, and her hand drifts absently through Castiel’s feathers.

_ “There’s some lore surrounding that, yes.”  _ Michael says, thoughtfully.

Castiel’s stomach drops.

_ “So Dean was right?”  _ He asks, a worried frown drawing itself across his features.

_“Well, I didn’t say that.”_ Michael shrugs. _“Who’s to say if it’s wrong or_ _right? We don’t really accept it as fact. It’s more to do with old suspicions; but then, we accept the belief that the size of an Angel’s wings affects their abilities in combat, so why not that?”_

_ “So it  _ is  _ true?” _

_ “I didn’t say  _ that.”

_ “So it isn’t?” _

_ “I didn’t say that, either.” _

Castiel groans exasperatedly, and Michael’s expression softens. 

_ “Listen, Castiel, we accept it as a myth—but yes, it could be—and probably  _ is— _ grounded in some kind of fact.” _

_ “Then what do they say your wings mean?” _

_ “Gold?”  _ Michael hums thoughtfully.  _ “Leadership, I think. Nobility. Nothing too implausible.” _

_ “What about bronze?” _

_ “Like Gabriel’s? I can’t remember,”  _ Michael chuckles.  _ “Ability to frustrate? I think it’s not dissimilar to gold. Politics, or something like that.” _

_ “And red?” _

Michael laughs again, apparently very endeared.

_ “Anna, can you remember what your wings are rumoured to mean?”  _ He asks, turning around to face their sister.

_ “Teaching, I think. Maybe combat.”  _ Anna’s lips twitch upwards.  _ “Excellence in everything, quite possibly.” _

Michael suppresses a smile.

_ “What would my wings mean?”  _ Castiel asks.

Michael looks down, and when Castiel glances over to Anna, but she too has averted her gaze.

_ “I don’t know.”  _ Michael says, shortly.  _ “Blue and black, like yours… It’s very rare. We hadn’t seen an Angel born with your colourings for hundreds of years before you came into our world.”  _ He grazes the back of his hand against the tips of some of Castiel’s feathers.  _ “You’d probably have to research that for yourself.”  _

Castiel huffs out a frustrated breath and rubs his face with the palm of his hand.

_ “But at the very least , that’ll give you something to do when you get back to Evadne, won’t it?”  _ Anna’s voice sounds falsely optimistic.

_ “Yes, I suppose.”  _ Castiel nods. It’s a poor attempt of his sister’s to keep Castiel out of boredom’s way when they are all back home, but Castiel appreciates it nonetheless.  _ “Do you think there is a library, here?”  _ Castiel asks, looking back up at his brother, who raises his eyebrows, questioningly.  _ “And if there is—do you think it’d be alright if I read in there, for a bit?” _

Understanding breaches Michael’s features.

_ “Yes,”  _ He smiles affectionately.  _ “I’m sure there is.” _

_ “And it wouldn’t be a problem if I visited it?” _

_ “I’m sure that’d be fine, little Sarim.” _

Castiel rolls his eyes at the pet name, but doesn’t object to his brother ruffling his hair, or pulling him in for a tight hug.

_ “The feast will be very soon.”  _ Michael reminds, his tone becoming flat and formal once again.  _ “You have a little time to unpack and settle in, and then either myself or Anna will come and collect you. Or Gabriel.”  _ Michael adds.  _ “But I’m guessing that you’d rather that it wasn’t him.” _

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards and he thanks his brother and his sister—Anna waves a goodbye to him as she leaves, and at first, Castiel thinks that Michael is going to exit the chambers without a backwards glance, but just before he reaches the door, his gaze flits over to Castiel and he gives a small, reassuring smile.

_ “I really am okay with your decision, Castiel.”  _ He reminds, but something about his tone is melancholic, and Castiel bows his head as his brother exits.

 

* * *

 

 

When Castiel makes his way down to the hall for the feast, with both Anna and Michael, as it turns out, he begins to feel increasingly queasy. Seeing Dean again will be awkward, to say the least, especially after Castiel has found out that Dean may have actually been right about the issue of Angel wings. 

They can hear the noise of the feast all the way down the stairs; when they are finally outside the doors of the main hall, the din is even louder. Music is playing—much like the music from the tavern that Castiel passed when in his carriage at the beginning of the day; and laughter and shouts can also be heard. More Angels have joined them on the way down, and now Michael stands at the front of the group much like he had earlier in the day during the first introductions.

_ “I know you don’t want to marry him,” _ Michael turns and talks quietly to Castiel, _ “but at least be cordial, tonight, with the oldest Winchester boy. Please?” _

_ “Of course.”  _ Castiel nods, and he looks down at the floor sheepishly.

_ “You probably won’t have to be anywhere near him, anyway.”  _ Anna shrugs, attempting to comfort the younger Angel. 

_ “Probably.”  _ Castiel agrees absently.

Castiel bristles uncomfortably when they enter the hall, now laid out with two long tables at the front, in parallel, where knights and noblemen and advisers from visiting kingdoms are seated. At the head of the hall is another table, still more lavishly decorated, angled perpendicular to the others. The colours of maroon and scarlet and jade and emerald fill the hall, tapestries now hang from every pillar and beside each window; it is an explosion of colour and light and chatter and vibrancy.

The three tables in the hall join at their corners, forming an incomplete rectangle of sorts, and Castiel looks over to the table at the end of the room, and sees the King and his family there, along with Sir Robert, the King’s advisor. 

Castiel avoids looking at Dean, although he can feel the Human prince’s gaze prickling heavily at his skin. Servants bustle and busy themselves around the place, serving the guests food and wine, and King John stands up and approaches Michael, greeting him in what feels like very feigned friendliness, requesting that he and his siblings sit at the head of the hall. 

The King also invites Michael to sit directly next to him—which Castiel assumes is so that he is able to discuss political matters with him and begin to decide on the terms of the Angels entering the Human and Demon war.

Castiel’s heart sinks into his stomach when he is directed over to Dean.

_ “It’ll be fine, Castiel.”  _ Anna reassures, leaning over to whisper the words into his ear.

_ “You promised I wouldn’t have to—”  _ Castiel hisses at his sister.

_ “I said you  _ probably  _ wouldn’t have to.” _

_ “Anna—” _

_ “It’ll be fine, Castiel.”  _ Anna repeats, rather unhelpfully, before she is redirected over to a seat near their oldest brother.

Castiel scowls at Gabriel when he grins over to Castiel, laughing as his younger brother has to seat himself, very awkwardly, in the chair next to Dean’s.

Dean stares ahead, apparently not wanting to talk to Castiel, which Castiel thinks he can understand.

It doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

“Um—” Dean starts, turning back to Castiel and taking him by surprise, making him jolt slightly in his seat. “—Sorry.” Dean stumbles over his words. “Well, now for two things—for making you jump, I mean—and for earlier. The fight, that is—which is kind of the big thing. I’m sorry. I was rude and I behaved like an ass—and I kind of do, in general, but I really try not to—I really do—I know it might not seem like it—but I definitely didn’t want  _ you  _ thinking that I’m an ass—and I’m sorry. I was a dick, and I don’t have an excuse. I just got kind of pissed, but—”

“I understand.” Castiel nods. He tries to supress the smile twitching at his lips. Something warm and relieved and very unfamiliar curls in his gut.

“Thank you.” Dean nods. “And I’m sorry that you have to sit next to me—I’m probably the last person—”

“That’s fine.” Castiel shakes his head. He questions why it is it’s so hard for him to suppress his smiles whenever he speaks to the Human—normally Castiel hardly smiles at all, yet speaking to Dean seems to bring them out uncontrollably.

“Sorry…” Dean mumbles again, like he doesn’t know what else to say.

“That’s fine.” Castiel repeats, and it’s  _ definitely  _ not affection burning brightly in his chest. No. Never. “And I spoke to Michael earlier, anyway, and it turns out you were right—or, you could be right.”

“Right about what?”

“Wings—our wings—Angel wings, that is. But—well, Michael said that yes, there is some lore surrounding that, and it is most likely founded in some kind of truth. So, you could be right, and I’m sorry, too.”

Dean bites his lip.

“Well, that’s not an excuse for my behaviour.” Dean shakes his head, his tone doleful.

“It sort of is.”

“It’s not. I’m sorry for shouting—”

“I’m sorry for shouting, too.”

“But I shouted  _ first—” _

“Well, I shouted louder.”

“I didn’t realise it was a competition?” Dean’s mouth twitches upwards, raising his eyebrows at Castiel—and something about the look he gives makes Castiel’s face heat, which it doesn’t usually do, but Dean is—

Well, different, apparently.

“I’m sorry for shouting.” Castiel repeats, his voice very small.

“You don’t need to apologise,”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t deserve an apology.”

“You do.” Castiel frowns. “Really, I behaved just as badly as you did.”

“That’s definitely not true.” Dean shakes his head. “Think about how rude I was. And the fact that you’re a guest, here. I was way out of line, I behaved  _ so  _ inappropriately.”

“But I—”

“Castiel, it’s fine.” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Wow, you’re almost as stubborn as me. Not in a bad way.” He adds this amendment, quickly, to the end of his sentence, but Castiel shrugs him off.

“My siblings have informed me that obstinacy is one of my shortcomings, on many occasions.”

Dean’s lips twitch into a smile.

“Yeah, Ellen likes to say that to me, too. Sammy does as well, for that matter.” 

“Why do you dislike having other people apologise to you?” Castiel asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Um—” Dean frowns.

“Sorry—you don’t have to answer if you don’t wish to.”

“No, that’s fine.” The Human shakes his head. “I don’t know. People don’t, usually—well, not to me.”

“Why not?” Castiel asks, again. He narrows his eyes slightly as he regards Dean, and tilts his head absently to the side, but something about his action makes Dean smirk a little, and Castiel frowns and composes himself again.

“I fuck up. A lot.” Dean shrugs, and Castiel dislikes the certainty with which Dean says this, how honest and detached the words sound when forming in his mouth. “People don’t tend to apologise to me, ‘cause they shouldn’t.”

“You fuck up?” Castiel repeats, raising his eyebrows at Dean.

“Oh, right—fuck is a curse word—it basically means I—”

“I know what it means.” Castiel defends quickly.

“Right—sorry.” Dean’s face heats, and something about the expression makes Castiel smile again. “Well—all I meant was… I’m really good at ruining things. And my father’s really good at putting up with me—”

“You’re his son. He  _ should _ , anyway.”

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugs. “I feel like some of the stuff I’ve done is a little inexcusable. But sorry—about me trying to explain what fuck means—I mean—I didn’t mean to offend you on the whole language thing… What I’m trying to say is, you speak perfectly, and I…” Dean trails off, his face a little bit torn, and Castiel has to suppress a smile once again.

“That’s fine.” Castiel brushes aside. Dean bites his lip and smiles nervously at Castiel, looking up through his eyelashes at him. Something about the look has Castiel’s insides crumpling.

“How did you learn to speak our language so fluently?” The Human asks.

“We are taught all your languages—or at least, the most widely used—from a very young age. As part of our studies.”

“Angels, you mean?” Dean asks.

“Yes.” Castiel nods. “And I,” He pauses, his voice faltering—should he really be telling Dean this? Is it wise? He sighs and continues anyway. “—I enjoy reading your literature. We have a library—back in my home—where there are whole sections dedicated to Humanity’s writings; I spend much of my time sitting in seclusion and reading books and plays and poetry written by you Humans. I like it. It’s far more personal than what most Angels write. Particularly about love, I find.” 

Fond amusement and fascination twist at Dean’s features, and Castiel feels himself squirming slightly under his gaze. 

“I think I get it.” He nods—the smile that is making Castiel’s insides squirm awkwardly is still tugging at Dean’s lips. “We have a library here, too… I could take you there some time, if you want.” Castiel perks up a little. “—Would you—would you want that?” Dean stammers slightly. Castiel lets out a happy breath.

“Yes.” He nods, quickly. “Yes, I would love that. Would it be any trouble?” He asks, raising his eyebrows at Dean. Dean seems to sigh in relief, and Castiel feels a pulse of confusion at this.

“No—no, it’d be fine. I’d love to.”

“Thank you.” Castiel smiles. Dean returns the look tenfold.

“It’s really no problem.” He shakes his head. Castiel notes how awkwardly it is Dean’s hands fumble with one another. “Do you… do you still want riding lessons? ‘Cause I get it, if you don’t—after our fight, and all…”

“I would still love to have you teach me, Dean.” Castiel nods.

“Good.” Dean stumbles with his words again. “Great.”

There is a pause for a moment, and Castiel feels relieved when the meal is laid out in front of them by bowing servants.

“Food!” Dean grins, pulling his plate closer towards him and shovelling a meat that Castiel doesn’t think he recognises into his mouth.

“What is that?” Castiel asks.

“Huh?” Dean asks through his mouthful. Castiel frowns slightly at Dean’s terrible manners.

“You eat like a pig.” Castiel observes. Dean grins at him, his mouth still full, and winks. It makes Castiel feel a little sick. “Worse than a pig.” Castiel shakes his head.

“Sorry.” Dean swallows, at last.

“When you’re a king, you’ll probably have to improve on that, you know.” Castiel informs, but Dean just rolls his eyes.

“When I’m King, I won’t have to do  _ shit  _ for  _ anyone.  _ That’s kind of the whole point.”

“The whole point is to  _ serve—” _

“Oh, fuck, don’t start that again.” Dean groans, and Castiel frowns again, feeling more than slightly defensive.

“You’ll want people visiting your kingdom to feel welcome, won’t you?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“Then I suggest not eating in a way that makes them want to vomit.” Castiel bites, turning back to face out to the hall again. Dean sighs and rubs his forehead with his hand.

“Sorry.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I’m not very used to company.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not good at dealing with people—normally it’s just me and Sammy. I have a couple of friends, sure; but I’m not used to—” He gestures between them, “ _ this _ .” He finishes.

“What’s ‘this’?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t know, formal shit. Formal shit with people my age. I don’t get to spend much time with people my age. You can probably tell by all my cursing—Ellen  _ always  _ picks me up on that. I’ll stop.”

Castiel shrugs.

“You don’t need to.”

“Well, anyway, the point is I don’t tend to get much company.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, there just aren’t that many people my age and my rank around, I guess. As friends go, there’s Ellen’s daughter, Jo, who I’m very close to, I suppose—but she’s a servant and John’s not really happy with me talking to her.” 

“Why?” Castiel asks. He cringes at how many questions he’s asking.

“Father thinks servants and royalty shouldn’t mingle.” Dean shrugs. “It’s bullshit. I’ll change that when I’m King.”

“I think that’d be a good thing to do, yes.” Castiel nods thoughtfully. Dean turns to him, lips playing softly upwards. 

“But I’m not going to be a king for ages, anyway, so there’s no need to worry.”

“What makes you say that?”

“My father’s not going to die any time soon, thank the gods.” Dean shrugs. 

“Right.” Castiel looks down at his plate properly for the first time now. “And what type of meat is this?” He asks again, gesturing down to it.

“Oh—yeah, sorry.” Dean shakes his head, as though snapping himself out of something of a daze. “That’s pheasant. Have you never had it before?” He asks. He sounds a little incredulous, and it makes Castiel feel distrustful.

“No,” He shakes his head. “I suppose I haven’t.”

“Wow.” Dean says, somewhat ineloquently.

“Pheasant?” Castiel repeats.

“Pheasant. It’s a type of bird. Eat it, you’ll like it.”

Castiel cuts off a small piece. He decides that Dean is right—it’s a little like the fowl the farming Angels keep further down the mountains, although it has a more gamey taste and Castiel guesses that it is not a bird which is farmed for, but rather hunted. 

“It’s still so strange to see you guys eat, you know.” Dean huffs a breath of laughter as he watches Castiel take another mouthful of the meat.

“Everyone eats, Dean.” He reminds, taking another bite.

“Yeah, I know.” Dean chuckles. Castiel tries not to think about how much he likes the sound of Dean’s laughter. “So how is it that you’ve never had—or even  _ heard of— _ pheasant, before?” Dean asks, and Castiel is grateful for the fact that Dean clearly reminded himself to swallow his food before speaking again.

“We just don’t get them on the mountains, I suppose.” Castiel shrugs. “Where do they normally live?”

“Forests, fields.” Dean shrugs. “Woodlands. Those kind of spaces.”

“Right.” Castiel nods. “Well, there aren’t too many fields on the mountains, believe or not.”

“I can believe it.” Dean chuckles. “What kind of animal  _ do  _ you get, then, up in the mountains?”

“Well, it depends on where exactly you are, as always, I suppose.”  Castiel muses. “Higher places will have different wildlife to the lower regions; as well as each kingdom having a few differences in which animals are native to it.”

“Okay.” Dean nods. “I get it.”

“There are wolves,” Castiel thinks, and Dean looks immediately surprised and  _ very  _ excited.

“Wolves?” He repeats, raising his eyebrows as though this is something that seriously impresses him, and Castiel pauses in his response, unsure if Dean is mocking him or not. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.” Castiel nods. “You’ve never seen one?”

“No, they don’t come out this far.” Dean shakes his head. “We only get wild dogs and foxes and that kind of shit out here, but nothing as exciting as  _ wolves.” _

Castiel laughs at Dean’s tone. Dean seems to pick up on this, but instead of looking indignant, he grins and winks at Castiel, once again, and Castiel catches his face flushing in the reflection of his goblet. He tries to persuade himself that it is only because of the reddish light of the hall and the bronze of the goblet that he looks  _ quite  _ so red-faced, but it’s hardly any use.

“What else lives there?—And are the wolves dangerous? Like, do you get attacked by them, ever?”

Entertainers and jesters have come out and are dancing and performing magic tricks, while the ever-loud music continues playing, a man playing a lyre sings songs far less bawdy than those Castiel heard coming out of the taverns in the lower citadel, but Dean ignores them and remains staring interestedly at Castiel.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “I suppose they know better than to attack our kind. And anyway, their dens are far away from our cities and villages.”

“How far?” Dean asks.

“Far enough.” Castiel shrugs. Dean frowns and takes another mouthful of food, still looking at Castiel.

Servants are still bustling around them, and refilling people’s goblets with sweet wines; Castiel finds himself disliking the disrespect with which many of the men at the tables address those serving them. He thinks to bring it up with Dean, but decides to ask him about it at a later date, and so pushes the thought out of his mind for now. 

“Still close enough that on some nights, you can hear their howls being carried by the wind.” Castiel adds. Dean looks seriously impressed at this, and Castiel feels something dangerously close to pride swell up inside of him.

“No—that’s like something out of a fairy tale!” Dean exclaims. “It’s—” He seems lost for words. “Wow. I’d like that, I think—at least the thrill of it. Isn’t that scary?”

“Not really.” Castiel shrugs.

“I guess for you it’s kind of normal, huh?”

“Yes.” Castiel nods. “That would be true.”

“So, what other animals?”

“We get foxes, too, and some other wild dogs, just like you would see here.”

“Oh.” Dean nods, absently picking at still more of his food while he listens to Castiel talk.

“Sometimes I see some wild cats from the castle. I see them running or crawling over the face of the mountain. Sometimes they stand on large rocks, looking out for prey.”

“Woah,” Dean nods, and once again he sounds as though he is genuinely impressed with what Castiel has to say. Castiel feels entirely perplexed with how much he likes how intently Dean listens to everything he says, how fascinated Dean looks with whatever it is Castiel talks about. 

None of Castiel’s siblings—Michael, in particular—have very much time to listen to what it is Castiel has to say, which could be why he enjoys Dean’s unquestioning attention so much. This seems like a good answer, although Castiel senses for whatever reason that it’s not the whole truth of the matter.

“That’s fucking awesome.” Dean beams, looking out at the hall now as though he has been struck dumb by wonder.

Castiel’s lips quirk upwards.

“Yes, I’ve never really thought about it, but I guess it kind of is.”

_“Kind of.”_ Dean snorts. “Do you know the names of any of the wild cats there? And are they the big ones?”

“A lot of them are, yes.” Castiel nods. “We get leopards—clouded leopards, and in the colder parts of the mountain, snow leopards.”

“Snow leopards? Fuck!”

Castiel cannot help but laugh at Dean’s constant amazement.

“And bears, by the rivers, and in the forests.”

“How big are the mountain ranges?” Dean asks.

“The Great Mountains take up well over the space of all your Earthly Kingdoms—we don’t inhabit all of the areas, you must remember—but the expanse is larger than all your Kingdoms and the spaces in between, and larger than the Cerydien sea combined with that. So, very big.” Castiel concludes.

“It must be so brilliant up there.” Dean states, shaking his head in amazement.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, pensively. “I suppose I’m very lucky.”

“You don’t fucking say.” Dean grins, still shaking his head.

“You’re the son of a king, Dean, you’re lucky, too.”

“Yeah, alright, point taken. But still—you’ve gotta admit, that’s very exciting.”

“Yes.” Castiel nods again. “It is. But like you said—it’s just normality, for me. I don’t really notice any of that stuff—the wildlife, that is. To me, you having horses at your disposal is just as impressive as me looking out the window and seeing a snow leopard is to you.”

“Fair enough,” Dean concedes, fiddling with his goblet for a moment, before taking a drink from it. “But I don’t get how horses could ever be as cool as fucking  _ leopards.” _

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards at Dean’s words. He wishes they’d stop doing that.

“We have eagles, too. Many Angels train them. And some Angels believe there are phoenixes, deeper in the mountains—and that the eagles are some of their descendants.” Castiel states—and he immediately loathes himself for it—it’s as though he’s trying to  _ impress  _ Dean, and—

“Fuck,” Dean mumbles, sounding slightly winded. Well, if Castiel was trying to impress him—which he prays he wasn’t—it certainly worked. “How could you ever be bored?” He asks, looking up at Castiel.

Castiel shrugs.

“It’s normal, for me.” He reminds.

“Right.”

“In my sister’s kingdom—Tyrzah—she says sometimes they get tigers. But I’m not sure if I believe her—I’d always heard tigers live further out into the mountains than that.”

“Have you never visited her kingdom?”

“Yes, but I don’t go very often. And even if I _did_ visit often, it’s unlikely that I’d see one—a tiger, that is—even if they do sometimes occasionally traverse the Kingdom.”

“I’d be fucking terrified if I ever saw a tiger.” Dean states, taking another mouthful of food.

“Me too.” Castiel admits. Dean looks up at him and laughs softly. “What is it?” Castiel asks, frowning.

“I never pegged Angels as the type to get scared, I guess.”

“Everyone gets scared, Dean.”

“Just like everyone needs to eat?” Dean asks, smiling wolfishly, and Castiel has to look down. “I’m kidding.” Dean grins. “I guess it’s just a little odd for me, finding out your people are so… well,  _ Human.”  _

Castiel isn’t sure if this is meant offensively or not.

“All I mean is,” Dean starts again, quickly, after seeing Castiel’s expression, “I’d always heard a whole bunch of fairy tales about you guys, and I’d kind of imagined you as these— _ things— _ that didn’t need fucking  _ anything.  _ You know? Probably not—that doesn’t make any sense, really. Um—like, I’d always thought of you as a little like deities, or something.”

“We’re not gods, Dean.”

“No, I know,” Dean shakes his head. “But I’d always thought of you as them. That sounds really fucking weird, sorry—”

“It’s fine.” Castiel shrugs. “It’s flattering. I think Angels might actually have disappointed you quite a lot, if that’s what you’d always thought.”

“You haven’t.” Dean states, quickly, and Castiel looks inquisitively over to him. “…I’d um—I spent a long time thinking you guys were assholes, too.” Dean admits. He looks somewhat guilty as he says this, and Castiel wonders why that is.

“Oh.” Castiel frowns. “Why is that?”

“— _ Was _ that,” Dean corrects.

“What?” Castiel frowns again.

“I don’t think you’re assholes anymore.”

“Right.” Castiel tilts his head to the side. “Thank you?”

Dean blushes.

“—Look, all I mean is, after seeing war, I got kind of pissed that none of you ever seemed to intervene. And I’d always learned that your ancestors had promised our ancestors that you’d help out if Humanity was ever in need of it—”

“They did.” Castiel nods.

“But you didn’t help. And I know you’re helping now, but a few months back, it really didn’t feel like  _ any  _ help would be given, ever. And war is… war,” Dean bites his lip, cutting himself off. He looks down, running a hand through his hair, and for the first time in a long while, Castiel becomes aware of the people around them, once again. 

Of the loud buzz of conversation in their ears, of the Angels and Humans speaking to each other, of the dull clatter of silver cutlery on pewter plates, of the sound of goblets banging on thick wooden tables. 

“War,” Dean sighs. “It’s fucking horrific. I don’t—” He bites his lip. “It felt like you’d abandoned us. And after all those bedtime stories about you guys—it felt—it  _ feels  _ like you’ve abandoned  _ me.” _

Castiel doesn’t know what to say.

“You know what my mom used to say to me, every night, before I went to bed?” Dean asks. “She told me that Angels were watching over me. And I believed her. And then it turned out that you weren’t—it just felt like a betrayal, you know? Like, I’d spent my whole life with this promise; with this promise that I’d never be alone—and then, when it turned out it wasn’t true, I felt like I’d been abandoned, or something. And I didn’t like it. And maybe that’s why I lashed out, earlier—because I still feel kind of shit about it. Does that make any sense?”

Dean looks up at Castiel with a look in his eyes like he is begging Castiel to understand him.

“I’m sorry.” Castiel says, and his voice is surprisingly small.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” Dean brushes Castiel’s apology aside. Castiel wonders if this is a force of habit. “Like I said; I romanticised you guys. That was a mistake—you’re people, you’re not gods.”

There is a bruising silence. Castiel doesn’t know how to respond—his social skills with Angels are limited, at best—but with Humans? He has almost no idea of how to interact, and it certainly shows.

“Where is your brother?” He asks, finally, and although it is a pitiful attempt to change the subject, Dean seems to accept it.

“Not here.” Dean states the obvious; and Castiel thinks this is the only response he is going to get, but then Dean speaks again. “He’s with Ellen. Father thought he was too young to be here tonight, which, naturally, made him throw a huge hissy fit. He was yelling that John was treating him like a child and all that crap, but he forgets that he  _ is  _ a child. But I get that he’s pissed.”

“Why do you understand?”

“The King treats me like a child, too.”

Yet Dean  _ is _ a child.

Castiel doesn’t say this. Because it would annoy Dean, because it would mean admitting that Castiel is a child, too, because it would remind him, yet again, of how ridiculous the engagement plan is.

Except, oh—Castiel isn’t engaged to Dean anymore. And something in his heart sinks at the thought—and he wonders how insulted and angry Dean will be when he finds out—and he wonders if Dean will be insulted or angry or upset at all, and he hates the part of his heart that prays that Dean would be anything other than relieved about the engagement being over; but it’s foolish to think that way. 

Because all that would mean getting attached, admitting that Dean is actually alright—more than alright; and that Castiel had overreacted earlier. And Castiel can’t do any of those things, he can’t get attached when he’s already cancelled the betrothal.

And now another thought crosses his mind—if he doesn’t marry Dean, he will  _ certainly  _ have to marry someone else at some point in the future. And he won’t be marrying them for love. But if he married Dean—

He can see himself growing to love Dean. He can hardly bring himself to explore this thought further; he can’t tell if it thrills him or terrifies him, but Dean—

“But you’re here, tonight?” Castiel asks, instead of pursuing his thoughts any further, and Dean shrugs, his lip curling.

“So, tonight father decides to treat me like an adult. But mostly—mostly no, he doesn’t. He treats me like a fucking kid, which is actually kind of funny, seeing as I’ve been in battle, seeing as he’s planning on marrying me off—” Dean cuts himself off. He looks up at Castiel. “Oh, I forgot to mention, my father is marrying me off, but I don’t even know who to. How fucking shitty is  _ that?” _

_ Oh.  _ Castiel thinks.

Dean doesn’t know.

“Why don’t you know who?” Castiel asks.

“John never thought it important to find out.” Dean sneers out at the empty space ahead of him. “All that matters is the kingdom. That’s all that ever matters.” The Human’s voice is about to crack.

Castiel considers telling Dean, now.

But that would mean telling him that he also broke off the engagement. 

And that’s the other thing: does Castiel actually want to call things off with Dean? Still?

He glances over to Michael, who is deep in conversation with John Winchester. He wonders if Michael has already told him that the engagement is off, wonders why it is that John has not told Dean who it is Dean is engaged to—wonders if John even  _ knew  _ who Dean is—or rather, was—engaged to.

“My family is the same.” Castiel finds himself saying.

“What do you mean?”

“They treat me like a child. Like—like I’m too young, too naive to be able to cope with the subjects they discuss; it’s infuriating—and yet they expect me to sacrifice myself for my kingdom, for our kind—and I think it’s more than I can bear, sometimes.”

Dean looks at Castiel with so much understanding that Castiel has to look away.

“I’ve never met anyone else who got it.” Dean says, and his voice is breathless with delight at finding understanding in Castiel and Castiel wishes that he was breathless for some other reason. “I didn’t think anyone else  _ could.” _

“Well,” Castiel shrugs. “I suppose I do.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods absently. Castiel looks back up, into Dean’s eyes, and swallows thickly. Their knees brush under the table. Castiel’s pulse quickens, and then it slows down all but completely. “I guess you do.”

“I need to go speak to my brother.” Castiel says, without thinking, and Dean appears slightly taken aback. “I’ll be back in just a moment.”

He stands up, pushing back his chair, and rushes over to his oldest brother, tugging him out of conversation with the King.

_ “I have to speak with you.” _ Castiel says quickly.

“What about?” Michael frowns, and Castiel blushes when he realises that he is speaking in Enochian, and that he has just interrupted his brother and King John mid-conversation.

“Sorry, Your Majesty,” he says quickly, turning to John Winchester and bowing his head. John shrugs him off and allows him to continue. Castiel decides that it’s best to begin speaking in Enochian to his brother, again.  _ “Have you told King John that I don’t wish to become betrothed to Dean, anymore?”  _ Castiel asks, his voice a panicked whisper.

_ “No,”  _ Michael shakes his head, frowning again.  _ “I haven’t had the time, unfortunately. Sorry. I’ll get round to it. It’s sadly a subject I’ll have to be rather delicate with, but I’ll breach it tonight, I promise—” _

_ “No!”  _ Castiel exclaims, a little too quickly, and he blushes at both his brother’s and King John’s raised eyebrows.  _ “I don’t think I want it to be off, anymore.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “I think—I think I’ve changed my mind.” _

_ “ _ Again _?” _

_ “Well, if you remember, I’d never actually made it up in the first place, Michael—”  _ Castiel hisses, but his brother sighs and cuts him off.

_ “Okay, okay. Fair enough. I won’t tell him. The engagement  _ isn’t _ off.” _

_ “Thank you.”  _ Castiel whispers, relief sweeping over him.

_ “That’s fine.”  _ Michael brushes his comment aside.  _ “Out of interest—what made you change your mind?”  _ He smirks slightly, and Castiel reddens once again.

_ “Not now, Michael.”  _ He mumbles, looking down.

_ “Okay, little brother.”  _ Michael concedes.  _ “Go back to your seat now—next to Dean.”  _ His features twist in amusement.  _ “I’ll see you tonight.” _

Castiel is about to walk off, when Michael grabs his wrist and tugs sharply at it.

_ “But, for the record, little brother; you were right. You  _ are  _ too young to be doing this. And so, although I will not tell the King I wish for the engagement to be cancelled; I will tell him that I want it pushed back. You’re still only a child, after all.”  _ He squeezes Castiel’s hand at this, and Castiel knows that it is meant to be comforting, but he wants to shudder away from the condescension of the touch.

_ “Thank you.”  _ He mumbles again. He bows his head to King John before turning and leaving, back to his seat.

“What was that about?” Dean asks, when he returns.

“Nothing much,” Castiel shrugs. “I just had to tell my brother something.”

“It was important?” Dean inquires.

“Yes.” Castiel admits. “I think so.”

“Are you okay?” Dean asks.

“I’m fine, now.” Castiel nods. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, you  _ are  _ a guest, after all.” Dean smiles. His smile turns into a grin when he looks out, in front of him, and sees servants bringing in another course.

“How many courses are we going to have?” Castiel asks, because frankly he already feels  _ very _ full.

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugs. “The King always likes to bring in a whole bunch when we have guests, just to impress them—it’s this really big ego trip for him to be honest. But I like the food, so I don’t complain.”

Castiel can honestly tell Dean likes the food. But he doesn’t say this. It would probably be rude. He watches Dean shovel course after course into his mouth, only taking a few small mouthfuls from each one, himself. There are soups and pies and meats of all kinds—far too few vegetables for Castiel’s liking, although Dean explains that to Humans they are considered a peasant’s dish and so are generally avoided. Dean is relentless in his eating. Castiel states this, taking a delicate spoon of his own soup, and Dean bursts out laughing. 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Dean admits. “But I’m not allowed much fun nowadays, so I’ve got to take what I can get. And food is great.” He laughs. “Call it hedonistic. Anyway, training really takes it out of me. If I didn’t eat this much I’d probably be starved.” Dean winks. Castiel smirks because he seriously doubts that, but he doesn’t say anything more.

“Pudding!” Dean exclaims, when the cooks bring the desserts in. Another smile twitches at Castiel’s lips. “What?” He asks.

“Nothing.” Castiel shrugs, but he still has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling.

“You’re mocking me.” Dean states, but a grin spreads quickly across his face.

“Mocking would require talking.” Castiel shrugs. “I wasn’t saying anything.”

“But you were  _ thinking  _ it.”

“Thinking what?”

“You tell me.” Dean grins. Castiel has to look down again. “Hey, are you going to visit any other Human Kingdoms while you’re here?” Dean asks, tone inquisitive.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head, “only Hera—although Michael may visit Castle Eofor soon, but I don’t know if I will. He said he’d rather go alone; I think it might be important. Have you ever been there?”

“Yeah, but I can’t really remember it.” Dean replies. “It’s nice, though—very pretty. It’s set in a forest, just like the castle here, but it’s surrounded by hills and mountains, too.”

“And what about the other Kingdoms? Have you ever visited those?”

“Corinna I visit a fair bit.” Dean nods. “—There’s a plague ravaging the place right now, though. Did you know that?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“Well, there is,” Dean continues. “And it’s really bad. Terrifying, Bobby said, and he’s not the kind of man to find  _ anything _ scary.”

“What’s happening?”

“They say that the people’s eyes are turning black, and then they just die. But when they do, all this black gunk starts oozing out of their eyes and ears and mouth. It’s horrible. Anyone who gets it is doomed to death—there’s no remedy, so they say.”

“That’s awful.”

“It is.” Dean nods. “I hope to God it doesn’t spread here, although it might do, which is a horrible fucking thought. No one is safe, no amount of noble blood can save you—it hits as many rich as it does the poor. Well, proportionately, I mean. How scary?!”

“Do they know what’s causing it?”

“My father says that some people are blaming the water, or saying that it’s evil spirits coming up from the earth—they had a quake there six moons past, and they say cracks formed on the ground and black smoke poured out—but I don’t know. There’s no real explanation, I don’t think, although the spirits one is probably bullshit. If—and that’s a big if—spirits exist—and I don’t really buy into all the seer shit, so sorry if you do—but if spirits exist, they’ve probably got more on their minds than just spreading a plague. I don’t know.”

“Probably,” Castiel nods thoughtfully. “And what about Dione? Have you ever visited there?”

Dean’s jaw clenches.

“I visited it in the Corinnian war.” He confirms shortly. “That’s it.”

Castiel decides not to press, and there is an awkward silence for several long minutes.

Dean stirs, like he is going to say something more, but just before he does, John stands up to make a speech. Castiel glances to his side as he sees Dean, now rigid and militant, listening to his father address the crowd in the hall.

“You seem much less yourself whenever your father is speaking.” Castiel observes, mumbling the words quietly in Dean’s direction as King John’s voice booms out across the hall.

“You don’t say.” Dean mutters back.

“Why is that?” Castiel asks, his voice dropping from a murmur to a whisper.

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugs. “I always try to do right by him, but it’s not easy. And sometimes I feel like I just  _ can’t— _ like I can’t make him proud of me at all. And it  _ hurts.” _ Dean admits. “Ever since our mother died—” Dean breaks off, and Castiel can hear his voice cracking, even through his whispered tones. “He’s not—he’s not looked at me and Sammy the same way since. Which cuts. And I get that it hurts him too—but what about  _ us _ ?”

Castiel nods, and his mind wanders back to thoughts of his own mother, and how he was never gifted the opportunity of knowing her.

“Your mother died when you were born?” Dean asks, and Castiel is slightly taken aback; because it seems almost as though Dean can read his thoughts.

“Yes.” Castiel nods. “And I have been told that it made my father very distant, but seeing as it was all I had ever known—”

“You were used to it.” Dean nods. “I get it. I think Sammy is the same. I think—because our mother died when he was only a year old—he doesn’t realise how different father used to be. And sometimes I want to tell him, you know? Sometimes I really do—but sometimes I’m so pissed off at John—for whatever; for drinking or yelling at me or Sammy, or for treating me like a child—and then I don’t want to tell Sam what he used to be like. I kind of  _ want  _ Sam to be convinced that the man’s a dick, you know? Is that bad? Is that kind of fucked up?”

“It’s understandable.”

“No, it’s really fucked up.” Dean groans, rubbing his face, and Castiel wonders why Dean asked him in the first place if he was simply going to answer the question for himself.

“It’s not.” Castiel shakes his head again.

“It is,” Dean disagrees. “It’s spiteful, and it makes me think that I deserve all the shit he gives me. I  _ do  _ deserve all the shit he gives me.”

“You don’t.” Castiel frowns at Dean.

“You’re saying that out of pity, aren’t you?”

“No.” Castiel replies firmly. “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.”

“Right.” Dean says, looking out ahead of him, but Castiel can’t help but think that the Human sounds more than slightly unconvinced.

“I’m sure your father’s very proud of you—for everything you’ve done.” Castiel attempts to comfort, but Dean shakes his head shortly.

“Don’t.” He mutters. “I appreciate it, really—but don’t.”

Castiel looks down again.

“I don’t deserve that.” Dean whispers. His voice is riddled with defeat.

The event ends, and Anna taps Castiel gently on the shoulder, asking if he wants to go back up to his quarters. Castiel gives Dean a questioning look—the two of them had spent the rest of the feast in silence—and Dean shrugs. Castiel stands up and leaves with his sister.

Dean is an enigma wrapped in a mystery.

And Castiel cannot help but be fascinated by every inch of him.

 

* * *

 

 

When Castiel is by the door to his quarters, he wishes Anna a good night, along with Gabriel and Michael when they appear at the top of the stairs. Michael smiles to him and gives a knowing look, and Castiel has to step inside of his room quickly, face heated.

Guards are placed outside their quarters, and down the corridor, but it doesn’t make Castiel feel any more at ease.

He can’t sleep that night. He presses his head back against the pillow and squeezes his eyes tightly shut, he thinks to turn it over onto its cooler side so many times he loses count—he kicks off the sheets and pulls them back on until he grows frustrated and weary yet no more able to find rest. None of it works. Castiel is homesick. The air is too heavy and thick down here, it sticks to the back of his throat and it feels as though it settles at the base of his lungs—it tastes warm and the air against his bare skin feels hot and sticky and so different to the cold, light air of the mountains. 

In the end, Castiel gets out of his bed and decides to roam the floors of the castle, giving up on drifting off to sleep. He pulls on a loose shirt, pale as the moonlight, before leaving his room, and is forced to mutter his excuse of restlessness to any guards who ask him of his intentions. Most offer to escort him wherever it is he wishes to go, and others near insist on following to keep him safe, but he refuses outright. He feels drained from company and, though he can hardly believe it, tired of speaking in the Heran tongue; his thoughts are becoming jumbled between the languages of Humans and that of Enochian, and it’s confusing and draining. Forced conversation with  _ another  _ Human would be more so.

He cannot make out where it is he is, there are only a few sources of light, most of them being windows, angled at such a point that the moonlight is able to stream through in delicate, papery waves onto the dull grey castle floors—any other light comes from the flickering yellow of the flames of candles or torches, but these are few and far between. Castiel wonders if the castle of Hera isn’t particularly accustomed to night-time wanderers.

Castiel stops dead in his tracks when he hears the sound of raised breathing and a cry of pain.

_ “Hello?”  _ He calls out, into the darkness—he speaks in Enochian on instinct, before realising that whoever it is the cry came from probably doesn’t understand him—he must be out of the wing of the castle allocated to the Angels by now at the very least. 

“Hello?” He tries again—he tries to ignore the timid waver in his voice as he speaks. “Is anyone there? Are you alright?”

He takes another few cautious steps forward before there is another startled cry, and whoever it came from sounds as though they are in distress—and then Castiel realises the sound is coming from behind a closed door to his left. 

“Hello?” He asks again, through the wood this time—but there is no response, only the sound of what Castiel thinks is a sob.

And then there’s the sharp inhalation of a breath, and the sound of someone fumbling for something, and Castiel knocks on the door, cautiously.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and there’s a clatter, and the sound of someone cursing, and Castiel opens the door slowly, peering through it warily.

And then he sees Dean, and there are scars stretching across all of the skin on Dean’s back, and still more on his shoulders and another long one jarring across his left arm, and Castiel wants to jump back and slam the door, but he can’t; Dean has started in fright and has seen him, the hand that Dean was rubbing across one of the great scars on his back falters, and Castiel can see that the Human’s face is damp with tears and his eyes are bloodshot and there are dark circles forming underneath them.

“Castiel?” Dean asks, and his voice sounds raw—not just rough with sleep but ragged from his cries of distress in the night.

“I’m sorry—” Castiel stammers. “I didn’t mean to intrude—I heard screaming, and—”

“That’s fine.” Dean blinks wearily, and Castiel watches as Dean lights another candle beside his bed and picks up a small, glazed pot of something. “You couldn’t sleep either, huh?” Dean asks, and Castiel nods.

“Something like that. I was probably feeling a little homesick.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Your air tastes different down here.” Castiel says, without thinking, and maybe it’s because he’s so tired and maybe it’s because he feels so comfortable around Dean; but either way, he hates himself for how foolish and dull he sounds.

Dean snorts. “Oh? I guess I can imagine.”

Castiel cannot tell if Dean is mocking him or not.

“You were having nightmares?”

“Something like that.” Dean presses his lips into a thin line, and Castiel thinks that he is attempting humour, but Dean honestly looks much too run down and exhausted to be able to do anything humorous and get away with it.

“You said you’d been to war—” Castiel squints, attempting to put the pieces together.

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “And believe it or not, tonight’s actually been quite a good one for the nightmares, all things considered.”

“It didn’t  _ sound _ very good.” Castiel frowns.

“I mean in comparison to some of my others, it’s been pretty tame.”

“Oh.” Castiel says, because he isn’t really sure of what else he can say. “It must have been awful.” He states, and once again, he pins the blame for his ridiculous comments on his own exhaustion, but really, it’s just him being stupid at this point.

“Yeah.” Dean nods distantly, face troubled. “It was.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Not your fault.” Dean shrugs. He opens the pot and Castiel thinks he can see some kind of ointment in the dull flickering of the candles in the room; and Dean dips his fingers in it and attempts to rub it over his back. “Fuck, this part is always hard.” He mumbles, his voice straining a little as he attempts to reach the spots which have scarred over the worst. “It’s for the scars.” He explains, when he sees Castiel observing inquisitively. 

“I’d worked that much out for myself, thank you.”

“Sorry.” Dean mumbles. “Ellen gave it to me. She says it helps them heal better. They always… burn a little, after my nightmares.” Dean swears when he nearly drops the pot in an attempt to hold on to it whilst rubbing his back. “Shit.” He mumbles, wiping his hand across the small amount of solution that has dripped over the side of the pot in the fumble.

“I could do that, if you want.” Castiel offers, without thinking, and he is about to kick himself again for saying such foolish, needless things, but then he catches the way Dean’s breathing falters and his pupils dilate and something like hope stirs itself inside of Castiel.

“You—” Dean’s voice catches in his throat. “Okay.” He nods, holding out the pot to Castiel, and Castiel is a little taken aback by Dean’s response.

He takes the pot, anyway—the glass of it is cool against his skin, and he is thankful for it. The ointment smells sweet and soft.  He dips his fingers inside of it, just as he saw Dean do, and then his hand falters, over Dean’s back—because really, is he actually about to do this? Why? 

He doesn’t leave himself time to answer his own question. Dean’s breath falters again when Castiel’s fingers finally make contact with the Human’s back; and Castiel doesn’t miss the slight hitch in the rise and fall of his chest—or the quiet, relieved moan that escapes his lips when Castiel begins to rub the oils in.

“How did you get these?” Castiel asks—because he needs to ask something; because it feels like magma has replaced his blood, because he feels like any second now he may forget how exactly to breathe, because he can see Dean’s eyelashes fluttering closed and Castiel desperately needs a distraction.

And then he realises that his question may have actually been somewhat offensive.

“Sorry,” He starts again, but Dean shrugs him off. Castiel can feel the movement of Dean’s muscles under his hand, their shift and the rise and fall of his chest, the drag of shoulder blades moving—the absence of wings from his back; just the slope of skin—and he cannot help but continue to be fascinated by it.

“It’s fine.” Dean says, and he runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly. “Like I said, it was when I went to war—and I don’t want to go into that much detail, if it’s alright. But, something went wrong… someone fucked up, or something, and our whole division got sent to the wrong place, and we were ambushed, and—” Dean sighs, breaking off. “We lost a lot of men.” 

Castiel wants to ask about this—to ask if it is only men who fight in the Human world—there are both male and female Angels who are soldiers—but he decides to bring this up at a later date. Dean is nearly trembling under his hands at the memory, and Castiel finds himself squeezing Dean’s shoulder softly at an attempt of reassurance. 

Dean sighs at the touch.

“And I don’t think I should’ve made it—I basically led those people to their  _ deaths—” _

“You were given the wrong instruction.” Castiel says softly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But I should’ve known what to do—”

“You can’t save everyone, Dean.” Castiel points out, voice quiet.

Castiel thinks that maybe his comment has offended Dean, but then Dean speaks again.

“But I  _ should.” _

Castiel doesn’t know how to respond. He moves his hand lower, to a scar that crosses over Dean’s spine, and Dean straightens his back out under the touch.

“That still doesn’t answer my question.” Castiel says thoughtfully.

“I said I made it out alive.” Dean’s tone is somewhat flat. “Dione—that kingdom we were fighting with—they’re  _ horrible _ in their warfare. No mercy. I was wearing armour, but—they found a way around it. I was barely alive when the brigade found us. My father was furious and disappointed and disgusted with me. I could tell.” 

“Wasn’t he more concerned for your welfare?” Castiel frowns.

“Sure. He never  _ said  _ he was any of those things, but he didn’t have to. It was all in his tone. All in the way he looked at me when I was being tended to by countless physicians. I’d fucked up,”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I was their captain. I was the one they looked to for commands, and when they needed it most, I failed them.”

“You—”

“Can’t save everyone.” Dean finishes Castiel’s sentence for him. “I know.”

There is silence for a moment. It settles thickly between the two of them.

“Could you do my arm?” Dean asks, gesturing to the scarring on his left arm, stretching up from just above his elbow all the way to the curve of his shoulder.

“Of course.” Castiel nods as Dean shifts himself so that he is facing the Angel a little more, giving him somewhat easier access.

“Thank you.” Dean gives a small, quietly troubled smile. “This is so much easier when you have someone to help you.”

“I can imagine.” Castiel nods, running his fingers down the length of one of the scars, curving gently like a crescent moon. The scarred skin feels different to the rest of Dean’s flesh, and Castiel attempts not to be too fascinated by this, but it’s difficult. His hands move back to Dean’s shoulders. “If you were an Angel,” he starts, chuckling softly, “your wings would start here.” He presses the pads of his forefinger and middle finger to a spot just off Dean’s shoulder blades, and then repeats the action on the other side of Dean’s back.

“Wow.” Dean’s voice comes out soft and quiet with awe. “I can’t imagine having wings.” 

Castiel’s thumb brushes slowly over the spot. It doesn’t quash his fascination, and he wishes he could spend hours studying Dean’s skin.

“I can’t imagine  _ not  _ having them.” Castiel laughs, and his heart swells inside his chest when Dean does, too.

“Yeah, fair enough.” Dean nods. He turns around to face Castiel, now, and Castiel feels his heart sink when he sees Dean reach out for the pot in his hands. “Thank you.”  Dean smiles, taking it from him, and Castiel doesn’t miss the way Dean’s fingers graze softly against his own. He wishes the moment would last longer. “It’s normally really hard to do that myself; it’s nice to have some company, too. So thank you.” Dean places the pot carefully on the small table beside his bed.

Castiel looks down, and Dean coughs awkwardly.

“Listen,” Dean starts, frowning a little worriedly . “I get it if I’m not your favourite person, after the fight—I get that—but…” 

“I don’t hate you—or even dislike you—if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Really?” Dean looks up, hopeful. Castiel thinks the looks suits him. Castiel thinks that  _ most  _ looks suit him.

“Yes.” He confirms.

“But I—”

“So did I.” Castiel shrugs.

There is another silence. Dean gives him a grateful look, and just when Castiel thinks he is going to have to look away, Dean speaks again.

“So, I was talking to my father, after the feast…”

“Okay,” Castiel frowns, unsure of how to respond.

“He said, uh—” Dean coughs. “He said he was talking to your older brother, Michael.”

“Right.” Castiel nods, but he feels his stomach sink.

“Apparently—apparently you’re the one I was supposed to become engaged to?” Dean looks up at Castiel, and the Angel wants to look away. “Did you know that?” Dean asks.

“Yes.” Castiel confirms, gut twisting uncomfortably. “I did.”

The words leaving his lips sound like some kind of confession.

“And you didn’t tell me?” Dean sounds a little offended. Castiel feels a pang of guilt shoot through him.

“I thought you knew.” Castiel looks down.

“But at the feast, when I said I didn’t—”

“I know.” Castiel carries on avoiding eye contact with Dean. Shame prickles at his skin. “I just—I didn’t know what to say, and—”

He doesn’t want to tell Dean he had planned to cancel the betrothal.

“It’s okay.” Dean shrugs. He offers Castiel a small smile, and Castiel isn’t sure if it is genuine or not. “Anyway, he said that you were the Angel I was supposed to be betrothed to. And then he said that the actual engagement’s been pushed back—because Michael thinks you’re too young—that we’re  _ both  _ too young.”

“Yes.” Castiel nods, because he knows all this, already, and he’s not sure what Dean’s point is.

“Um—” Dean sighs, and he rubs his face as though he’s embarrassed. “All I’m saying is—I’m glad it was you.”

“What?” Castiel frowns.

“I’m glad it was you.” Dean looks up at Castiel and says the words as though they are the only thing left in the universe that hold any truth. “I’m glad it’s you that I’m engaged to—or  _ going _ to be engaged to. I wanted it to be you. When I first saw the Angels—when I first saw you—I wanted you to be the one who I was engaged to. I saw you, and I wanted it to be you.”

Dean’s words weigh heavy on Castiel’s heart.

“I’m sorry if that sounds messed up. Or if it doesn’t make any sense.” Dean rubs his face again and lets out an embarrassed sigh, but Castiel’s hand touches Dean’s without Castiel even realising it, and suddenly their fingers are intertwining together, and Dean is looking up at Castiel with a shy smile tugging at his lips, and Castiel returns the look—and it’s strange, but he never smiles half as much as when he is with Dean; and what is even stranger is that Castiel means every one of his smiles when he is with the Human Prince.

“So—I guess—well, I mean—we’re sort of fiancés, right?” Dean asks. “Or, like—promised to be fiancés…”

“Engaged to be engaged.” Castiel laughs, and so does Dean, and Castiel thinks that he forgets what air is for a brief moment.

“Yeah,” Dean beams. He looks up at Castiel, like Castiel is the sunrise and Dean has spent his whole life in the dark, waiting for dawn; and he smiles again. “I’m glad it was you.” He repeats.

“I think I’m glad, too.” 

“Do you want to see some more of the castle, now?” Dean asks, suddenly, and Castiel can’t help the warm affection that pulses tightly through him at Dean’s request. “Our tour got cut short, last time—sorry.” He glances down.

“I’d love that.” Castiel nods. “Would it be a problem?”

“No, not at all. There’s a place—down in one of the courtyards—I used to go there all the time with my mother—I think you’d really like it, though. Can I take you?” Dean asks, and Castiel actually has to suppress his smile before he replies.

“I’d like that very much, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments are hugely appreciated! Hope you're all enjoying - next update will be on the 5th October. 
> 
> If any of you could promote/share this story with anyone as well, I'd be eternally grateful!


	5. The Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tread softly," Uriel advised, glancing back to the other Angel. "I cannot know your intentions any better than you know mine, and cannot pretend to understand why it is you agreed to Raphael's and my proposal, just as you cannot pretend to understand why it is I agree with Raphael that Michael ought not to send troops into war… Just, remember—we both want what will be for the good of our people. The only difference is, I know what that good is, and I know how to get it."
> 
> "What do you mean, 'tread softly'?" Jael called after the soldier. Uriel turned to face Jael and smirked again.
> 
> "You walk with the highborn Angels, now, Jael," His smile seemed to hide something, "you'll learn soon enough, if you haven't already, of how politics in Evadne is little more than hundreds of webs formed by Angels far less compassionate, and far more intelligent than you."
> 
> Jael didn't care much for the insult to his intellect; he knew how Uriel chose to rile his adversaries rather than reason with them.
> 
> "You're a soldier," He called after the other Angel. "What would you possibly know of the matter?"
> 
> Uriel didn't answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, next chapter came faster than I anticipated! (I think I promised it for the 5th? anyway) This is partly to make up for the fact that it's from neither Dean's nor Castiel's perspective - I'm really sorry! That said, it's still really important to the storyline (you'll see later) so don't skip it.I hope you all enjoy it, anyway, it'll probably be quite fun to learn more about the world Dean and Cas live in, even if that means sacrificing an immediate Destiel fix.
> 
> Next chapter will be from Dean's perspective, I promise! It'll also be a pretty heartwarming one, I reckon, so hold on tight.
> 
> That said, every fifth chapter will be like this one - as in, from narrative perspectives other than Dean and Castiel's. You'll get to see a lot of intrigue/plotting/secrecy going on, which ought to be really fun, too, as well as driving the plot of the story. These chapters are also all (or at least mostly) going to be in past tense narrative, as opposed to the present tense that Dean/Cas's chapters have been.
> 
>  
> 
> If you want to stay updated on the story, follow thedevilsepitaph.tumblr.com for posts about upcoming chapters, fanart, spoilers etc. (You can also ask any questions there and I promise they'll be answered!

**"I am afraid. Not of life, or death, or nothingness, but of wasting it as if I had never been."**

—Daniel Keyes, _Flowers for Algernon_

* * *

 

**Jo**

**"Who wants pretty**  
**when pretty is plain**  
 **and the heart is gnarled and the fullsacked**  
 **forest of being lost is home?"**

—Brenda Shaughnessy, from "Voluptuary," _Interior With Sudden Joy_

Never growing up with brothers or sisters, Jo would pretend she had a family big enough to fill the castle. Hopping down cool grey corridors, feet tapping and echoing against the stone of the halls, Jo would give names and stories to all the people who passed her—servants, highlords, merchants or physicians, it made no difference—all of them would come to fit into the world she had created. She gave them roles within her family in a world where all the people she came across were relatives; aunts, uncles, distant cousins, grandparents, great-grandparents—when she began to run out of family-members to assign to the people she encountered in the city, she searched harder, looked deeper; imagined that the strangers were godparents and god-brothers or sisters; great-aunts and far, far removed relatives on her fictional grandmother's side. Soon, her family was as big as an entire kingdom. Who could feel lonely then? Who could feel isolated when everyone in sight was a relative? The whole world was her family—and who could ask for more than this?

There were only two positions in her family that she refused to assign to these strangers passing her, giving slow, wary looks to the little girl bouncing around the castle while her mother worked as a servant of the King's House. The roles that Jo refused to share were those of mother and brother.

Jo had a mother of her own, and none of the kindly looking women in the market-squares, nor the proud and beautiful and fearsome looking women in the King's Court could ever fill the home in Jo's heart wherein her mother resided; none of them ever would. The thought made something mean and unfriendly curl inside Jo's chest, it made her resent all the women she looked at while considering what kind of a mother they might be. Ellen Harvelle was like the lavender honey the merchants brought to the market from the forests of flowers in the east, and all these other mothers were like the sour-smelling wine the high born men drank at dinner.

Jo knew that these were mean thoughts, so she avoided thinking them, and in order to avoid thinking them, even in her imaginary world, Ellen always had to be her mother, and always would be.

And as for the position of brother? Well, Jo already had two! What more could she want, and how could any other boy in the kingdom take the place of Dean or Sam? No; Jo had two brothers, and no need for any more. Could the boys down in the citadel make Jo laugh as much as Sam or Dean could? Could the stable-boys teach Jo to ride or fight or shoot arrows any better than Dean could? Would the pageboys of the Lords and Ladies in the castle, or the squires of the knights of the kingdom know half as many stories or languages or histories as Sam? And would these boys share these stories and words with Jo at night while she sat beside the fire with them, beaming because of how quiet they had to be so that nobody would wake?

No—none of the boys in all the kingdoms in all the world, excluding Sam, would do for Jo what Sam did; and even if they were willing, Jo wouldn't want them to. The boys who served the old, wizened looking Polymaths who spent all their time in the library, bookchambers and courtrooms, would probably have _terrible_ handwriting compared to Sam's confident, elegant style, and would certainly not be anywhere near as patient as Sam when Jo stammered over a word from one of the books Sam was helping her read from; would probably grow frustrated with Jo when she struggled to copy out a word in her own hand, her fingers aching from the precision with which she attempted to write. None in this life could be as patient a teacher as Sam, she was sure of it—and while Sam always assured her that she would one day be able to read all the books in the castle's library, would any other boy his age consider Jo of a worthy rank to be educated?

Jo was young, certainly, but she was not naive: she knew what her rank and title—or lack thereof—meant, and how this would change the way she walked through the world. Serving girls did not grow up to become philosophers; and princes were not meant to teach them how to read. But one prince did anyway.

And would any of the young lordlings even _consider_ training Jo in how to fight? Would they have even thought it possible for a lady to shoot with a bow and arrow?—No, Jo was not even a lady, only a little serving girl, at that—and so, who else but Dean would have taken Jo's plea to learn how to duel with swords, to shoot with a bow, even to shoot with a longbow, a crossbow, to learn to ride, seriously? Many would have grown angry; had Jo punished for being so improper, for thinking to stray outside her place in this life; others would have simply laughed and attempted to convince Jo that she was entirely incapable of such tasks, that her arms were too small and weak to carry a sword—but not Dean. Dean had nearly _beamed_ when Jo had first shared with him her desire to learn how to fight and defend herself—and he had certainly laughed, but Dean _always_ laughed when Jo spoke, and not in a way that mocked Jo or her request, or how vulnerable she felt in the moment of her plea, but with something else altogether.

"Jo," Dean's smile was warm, gentle, small initially. "Why on this earth would you want to learn to fight?"

The question wasn't incredulous, nor was it condescending—it was genuinely inquisitive, if affectionate.

"Isn't it obvious?" Jo had frowned. "And why should every other boy in the kingdom have the right to train with swords, if they wish, and not I?" She glared indignantly up at Dean.

"No, not obvious at all," Dean chuckled, "I fear that I shall need a little more in the way of explanation on that front, to truly understand. And as for every boy in the kingdom, why should they make a difference?"

"How do you mean?"

"You're a _girl_."

"I hadn't noticed."

Dean burst out laughing. Jo glared, hard, at the prince.

"I haven't even _taught_ you how to fight, yet, and already I fear for my life after saying that." Dean grinned, shaking his head.

Jo caught herself in half a second.

"So you're saying you'll teach me?" She asked, her eyes growing wide and unbelieving. Had she really not thought that Dean would accept? Had she really not expected to get this far?

"Of course I'll teach you," Dean chuckled, bending down to squat in front of Jo so that he stood a whole head shorter than her. He regarded her steadily, slowly, gently. Jo was used to people giving her cautious looks, but something about this look was different. Something about it was kinder, something about it held more reverence. "Whatever you want to learn. What _do_ you want to learn?"

Jo stumbled for a moment. Apparently, she really _hadn't_ expected Dean to be willing to fulfill this, one of her sincerest wishes.

Dean beamed and ruffled Jo's hair. "Have you given it much thought, yet?" He snorted.

"I have," Jo frowned indignantly, "—everything—that's what I want to learn. Everything. Do you think you can teach me that?"

Dean laughed so hard he had to rock back on his heels and rest his hands on the cold stone floor. Jo stared at him warily the whole time.

"Well," Dean beamed, looking back up at Jo, "I'm sure I can try."

Jo could hardly think for how widely she was smiling.

"How about we start with the basics," Dean started slowly, "I'll teach you how to ride… How to shoot with a bow and arrow… How to duel—with wooden swords, of course—"

"Hey!" Jo protested loudly.

"—Only to begin with," Dean raised his hands and eyebrows at Jo, grinning. "That's how I started out, Jo," He reminded. "Then we can move onto fighting with dull blades… Use those for a few months. Maybe longer, maybe a few years. I'll have to see how quick you learn, how controlled you are. Then, and only then—and by that, I of course mean, when I'm convinced that you love me enough not to try and kill me on the training field—" Jo rolled her eyes but giggled as Dean spoke. He grinned wildly in response. "— _Then_ we can move on to training with sharpened swords. Deal?" He asked, holding out his hand for Jo to take.

"Deal." She beamed, shaking the older prince's hand.

"Great," Dean's grin was lopsided, "so, we've got shooting, duelling by sword, riding… What else do you want to learn?"

"I could learn _more?"_

"Of course," Dean chuckled, "I could teach you how to fight by hand?"

"Wouldn't that hurt?" Jo raised her eyebrows, concerned.

"If you learn it right, Jo, you hurt _them_ before they hurt _you_." Dean reminded. "And all training hurts; your muscles are going to ache and scream at you to stop, you're going to get bruised, and knowing you, you'll probably love it. And on top of that _,_ in the real world, you're not always going to have a sword on your posession—remember that—especially as a girl."

"Why especially as a girl?"

"Do you see many high born ladies wandering about the courts with a bow and arrows strung round their back? Or a breastplate on? Or a sword in sheath?"

"No," Jo admitted, "but I am no high born lady. I'm a serving girl."

"Good point," Dean admitted, smiling at Jo as though she was very amusing indeed, "but the same applies for servants. I can't remember _ever_ seeing your mother carrying a crossbow around with her. Or polishing her shield."

Jo pressed her lips together.

"That's only because girls aren't _supposed_ to fight."

"And why do you think girls aren't supposed to fight?" Dean asked quickly, voice soft. Jo gauged his expression for a moment, attempting to decipher what it was he truly thought about Jo's desire to learn to duel. Did he think it foolish? Did he think it frivolous? Did he think it a joke, and all because Jo was a girl? Or did he take it seriously, but only because it was Jo who asked, and not any other girl? Perhaps this question of his was an attempt on Dean's part to get Jo to separate herself from the other girls in the kingdom; to tell Dean that she was somehow different to the rest; stronger, better, braver—but Jo didn't want to do that. Those girls were her sisters, her cousins, her god-sisters—at least in her mind. But what would Dean think of her refusal to distance herself from all the women who had never learned to fight?

She resolved to answer sincerely anyway, regardless of what Dean truly thought; whether he considered Jo to be an exception to the rule of girls being unfit for training in combat made no difference to her: she was not about to deny any other girl in the kingdom the right to train in battle just because she wanted to appease her older brother, make him think better of her.

"Because you highborn lords say so," Jo replied coolly.

" _I_ don't say so," Dean's lips twitched upwards. "but why do you think _they_ do?"

Jo squinted at Dean for a moment.

"Because they're old and foolish." Her jaw tightend. "Because when men grow old, any change in the world is unwelcome."

"And the same does not apply with women?"

"I don't think so." Jo shook her head. "You disagree?"

"No," Dean looked at the floor, smiling absently as though his mind was in other places. He still crouched down in front of Jo. "I think you're right." Jo nearly beamed at her brother's approval. "I think you're wrong about something, though…"

Jo's face fell.

"Oh," She frowned softly. "What?"

Dean slowly lifted his gaze to reach hers.

"You're going to walk differently through this world than men of your class would, remember that—and remember that those men, and men of my rank, and almost every other man in this world, will want to keep it that way— _especially_ as they get older."

"Why?"

"Because you're a lioness, and men are afraid of things with sharp teeth and claws. So they do everything in their power to keep those claws blunt, to pull those teeth out."

"Just me?" Jo asked.

"You and a couple of other women I can think of." Dean winked.

"Me and _all_ other women." Jo corrected. She frowned indignantly at Dean. "All lionesses."

"All lionesses." Dean repeated, smiling and reaching out to squeeze Jo's shoulder. His palm seemed enormous compared to the rest of Jo's slim, wiry frame, and for a moment Jo felt very small—but then she reminded herself that she was a _lioness,_ if only a cub, and that she had a mouth full of teeth and claws that would grow long and sharp—and she was not going to let anyone pull them out or sand them down without a fight. "And in return for me teaching you to fight, Jo, I'd like to ask something of you."

Jo's gut twisted—she was very poor; she had no money herself—she was only a child, after all, and Ellen looked after the money in their home to keep them both fed and warm and bathed. Would Ellen let Jo train? Would she let Jo _pay_ to learn to fight? Did they even _have_ the money for that? But then, Dean was a prince, he owned a portion of the _world_ —what did Jo have that Dean could possibly want?

"What is it?" She asked, suddenly as nervous as she was at the beginning of their conversation.

"I want you to do something very important to me…" Dean's grin turned lopsided, "Which is to make sure that I don't grow into one of those old men who's afraid of change in the world. And I _need_ you to make sure I don't turn into one of those men who files down women's claws and pulls out their teeth. Do you think you can do that?"

Jo giggled and beamed. "I think I can try."

"You can _try_?"

"I'll make certain of it." Jo giggled again.

"I appreciate it." Dean winked. He stood up, sliding his hand off Jo's shoulder. Where it rested still felt warm. "Although after training you, I'm a little concerned I'll have to teach the whole _kingdom_ how to fight. Just to keep them safe."

"I'll be the finest warrior in all the kingdom." Jo hopped after Dean as he made his way to leave the chamber they had been speaking in, fire roaring in one of the four walls.

"I don't doubt that you will," Dean smiled in such an affectionate way down at Jo that his nose wrinkled. Jo wrinkled hers back, and Dean laughed so hard that his head tilted back. "What kind of fighting do you think you'll specialise in?"

"I want to be like the warriors from the northern tribes who stand stronger than the trees and move like the wind. Or like the champions from the Southern Isles who watch sea snakes for years to learn how they move—or the men from Dione who can dance like the sea and wind and turn fighting into art—or like the Angel Kings who—"

Dean laughed again and wrapped his arm around Jo's shoulder, pulling her into his side.

"Has Sam been reading to you again?" He asked, grinning. Jo pulled away from Dean's hold, stunned.

"You know he does that?"

"My quarters are right next to Sammy's," Dean snorted. "I hear him reading his favourite stories to you all the time. I hear him correcting your pronunciation, your spelling, all of it."

"Have you told anyone?" Jo asked, staring up at Dean. Concern ran pinpricks of shivers over her skin. She would almost _certainly_ get flogged for this—

"No, of course not."

" _Will_ you tell anyone?"

Dean turned to Jo and pulled a face.

"What do you think of me, Jo? That I'd have you thrown in the stocks for learning written word? Of course I'm not going to tell anyone."

Jo slumped in relief. She knew what normally happened to servant girls who strayed outside their cast.

"Do you think it's wrong that I should want to read and write?"

Dean glanced down at Jo again, expression turning soft.

"Way I see it, Jo, if you want to learn, you should. What right does anyone have to stop you?"

"Serving girls aren't meant to read." Jo replied, voice turning small.

Dean blew a raspberry.

"Fuck anyone who tells you that," He waved dismissively. "You're my friend, you do whatever the fuck you like."

Jo giggled at Dean's cursing.

"Friend?" She repeated, looking up at Dean.

Dean glanced down, lips twitching upward. He pulled Jo back into his side and squeezed tight.

"I don't know, what would you say you were, to me?"

Jo shrugged, face heating.

"I don't know…" She mumbled, embarrassed.

"Sister?" Dean asked, smile growing. There was something knowing and beautifully, innocently loving in his expression. "Would you agree—that you're my friend and sister?"

Jo beamed.

"That would make you my brother."

"Oh?" Dean frowned. "Is that how it works?—Well, shit, I had no idea!"

Jo pushed Dean lightly, sticking her tongue out.

"You shouldn't have been born a prince," She shook her head. "You should've come into this world a court jester."

"Believe me, Jo, I think about that a lot." Dean ruffled Jo's hair. "I'd be a lot happier for it, I'm sure, as would my father."

Jo had no need to create a kingdom full of brothers inside her head. She already had two, and they were princes and teachers and fighters and fools. Who could ask for more?

* * *

 

**Mary**

" **Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place."**

—Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You

Being surrounded by trees always cooled Mary's nerves. Today she felt as though a storm were coming in her heart; ugly and murky on the horizon, and had awoken to a greying sky. She had ventured into the forest almost immediately, the hem of her long pale dress catching on the roots of trees whose branches seemed to touch the clouds—but at least now she couldn't see the dark, unpromising sky, shielded as it was by the clambering branches and flourishing leaves of the trees that belonged to the forest. This was a precious forest, blessed and enchanted. Mary had always been able to tell.

The week had been one of particularly low spirits.

Mary's father had been speaking of marriage since she first bled, which was at thirteen; and she had managed to fend off all his suggested suitors, and ignore his digging personal remarks for four years. Now, at nearly eighteen years of age, and it being late summer with her birthday in only four moons, Samuel Campbell seemed more determined than ever to marry his only daughter to a learnèd, highborn man. What frustrated Mary more than anything was the fact that before all of this, she had considered her father the kind of man who would respect his daughter's wishes—especially those on not wishing to be married. Apparently she had been wrong.

And now, at eighteen, all those in Eofor considered Mary of an appropriate, if not ideal age to become wed—but she had no desire to do so whatsoever. Why should she marry because it was considered the norm at her age? She would rather live out a thousand lonely winters unwed than marry for any reason other than love alone. She was not about to be forced into betrothal, and then a lifetime with one she felt only indifference, or worse, loathing towards.

A few of the trees were beginning to turn brown; leaves darkening before falling from their branches and crisping on the ground. Late summer had always seemed so melancholic to Mary, something in it wistful and introspective. She wished the day were brighter, the leaves on the trees surrounding her lighter; she wished her father would allow his daughter to carve her own path in this life, to make her own destiny and shun anyone who tried to make it for her. Incidentally, she also wished that the party from Hera that would be arriving at Eofor any day now would do just the opposite, _not_ arrive, for a whole wealth of reasons.

Mary believed more than anything that you must tread gently through this world, treating everything you encounter with love and kindness. Everything was soft if you touched it softly.

Everything could be bright, and everything could be nurtured. To Mary, this was what courage was—true courage: treating the world kinder than it had thought to treat you. And all of this seemed to be the antithesis of the brutish, foolhardy kingdom of Hera. Even their capital was ugly, so said the city merchants who had travelled every stretch of land from the low mountains to the Cerydien Sea; yet Mary's father thought the Heran visit a perfect opportunity to find Mary a suitor whom she had not yet had the chance to spurn, and who had not yet heard of, or been terrified by, Mary's headstrong and independent character.

She trailed her hand along a row of summerflowers that would surely be dead by the next crescent moon, something bitter and melancholic drowning itself in her lungs, its last breaths filling her with a numb, pale kind of sadness. Ordinarily, Mary never picked flowers, instead wanting to allow them to flourish completely until the end of their days—but the end of these flowers' days was drawing near, and in their petals Mary saw the same sadness she felt deep within her own soul. She plucked each one delicately, weaving them through her hair, feeling oddly whole.

It was hard for her to feel lonely in the forest for long.

Next, she traced her hand over the rough bark of each of the oaks that led up to her favourite stream, one that on sunny days, the light bounced off so perfectly that it seemed as though the water was not water at all, but crystal—moving, living crystal. Sitting down beside it, this feeling of being whole returned to Mary. She hummed a lullaby softly to herself, and, picking up a stick that lay beside the tree she sat under, she began drawing the plants she saw around her on the loose earth of the forest floor.

She loved the smell of this place, loved the stillness—she was not the only one, apparently, and had hardly noticed the doe and fawn that approached the stream she sat beside until they were just in front of her. She kept still, pulse quickening with delight—so still that she thought she could hardly breathe, joy filling her system.

She would happily live out the rest of the days in the forest— _this_ forest, in particular. The deer and foal had noticed her, and became suddenly still and fearful, so Mary pretended to be unconcerned with the pair, looking away, observing them only in her peripherals.

They returned to their drinking—Mary rummaged in the moleskin bag she had brought with her and found what she was looking for: cake, and fresh cake at that. The baker and has wife were awfully fond of Mary, all things said and done—most people seemed to be, for that matter—and Mary was very fond of them, in return—and on her way through the town she always thought to stop by their bakery with any herbs she had found growing in the forest, or berries, or something else entirely.

The baker's favourites were the wild mushrooms that grew deeper in the woods; the baker's wife adored crabapples; she fermented them and made them into jams perfect for the breads her husband made.

Every time Mary stopped by to wish the couple well, walking in or only peering through the window and beaming at the pair, they always gave her food: fresh rolls, buns, cake—her favourite was the flatbreads the baker's wife did so well, still warm and cooked with spices that seeped into the dough, spices that the baker's wife said came from her mother's home, far, far south in the Hook of Dione.

The fawn caught the food's scent on the light wind blowing in from the north and lifted its head inquisitively, if a little cautious at that. Mary held it out for the creature to examine—the doe raised her head also, something not unlike panic flickering across her big, black eyes that seemed to glitter like the night sky. The stream still separated Mary and the two animals, but not by much. After another minute of stillness, allowing the pair to relax again, Mary moved closer, leaning forward, careful not to fall into the water. The fawn lifted its head again and sniffed the air between it and Mary's hand. Mary leaned closer still.

The deer ate a corner of the cake delicately.

Mary's heart began to sing. Just as she was about to move to cross the stream and get closer to the mother and child, to possibly _touch,_ the sound of a thousand horses and a dozen wheelhouses thundered in the near distance, and the mother and foal fled back into the thicket they had emerged from in a flash of ruddy-brown and white.

Mary slumped, sighing in bitter disappointment, sadness filling her lungs once again—before she realised what the sound of a thousand horse hooves must have meant. Panic and worry quickly replaced the growing loneliness filling her chest.

Defeated, Mary wiped the loose earth from her hands onto her dress, before trailing them in the clear stream and wiping them again. She then stood up, picking up a stick long enough to be a shepherd's crook, and trailed it in the soil after her, ambling slowly back towards the citadel. She glanced back up at the sky. Still grey, still overcast.

Mary was not a superstitious girl, but she still took it to be a bad omen. This Heran visit would be a long one, she could tell—and an agonising one at that. She couldn't remember what it was the occasion for their visit had been; only that Hera was parading round all the Earthly Kingdoms as though the gods had placed Her in this world to gloat to every other territory that Her land was the greenest, Her warriors the greatest, Her lords the richest, and whatever else it was that the Herans valued most and deemed most worthy of praise.

Growing distracted by trees and kingfishers and contented bees all surrounding her, it was nearly sundown by the time Mary ventured back to the castle, in the end. The sky had cleared itself considerably, just as Mary's bad mood had dissipated in the presence of the forest, and now, as well as having hundreds of wildflowers woven into her hair, Mary also had stuffed as many mushrooms as would fit into her bag, having scattered the remaining cake for the birds to eat, and nibbled on only a little herself. She had also found a leaf larger than her face with all the colours of green, red and brown composing its surface, and a handful of blackberries so ripe that they were delicate to the touch, threatening to burst with dark, sugary juices, and were a deep enough black that they seemed to soak up all the colour around them. Mary's hands had looked almost like snow when she had been picking them

At the castle gates, Mary was greeted by the soldiers Cai and Gawaine.

"Have you been in the forest all this time, little lady?" Gawaine asked, standing in front of the great doors into Mary's home.

"It would seem so," Mary smiled at the young man's pet name for her. There were few in this world who could get away with naming her this; Gawaine was undeniably one of them. "Have you been guarding the citadel for all this time?"

"It would seem so," The soldier replied, grinning. His dark brown eyes glittered affectionately. "I have friends to speak to, here, however, and tasks to carry out—what could you possibly be doing in the forest for over half a day?"

"Perhaps the little lady is friends with the trees?" Cai asked. "And speaks to those?"

"I never knew you were one to buy into such things, Cai." Mary retorted, returning the familiar smile the boy offered her.

"I never thought I was either," The soldier with skin the colour of dusk replied. It was said his mother had come from a land unknown, far beyond the mountains of Tyrzah; south-east of Eofor; in a country where the sun never set and winter never came. Mary had no way of knowing; the only one who had known Cai's mother intimately for any amount of time in this kingdom was Cai's father, who had turned quiet and reflective after his wife's passing and spoke in few words. "But then, shouldn't you be flattered, that you make me believe in magic and dryads and the like?"

"I suppose I should be," Mary hardly suppressed her smile—it was in Cai's nature to be playfully flirtatious with whoever he spoke to, and something in his manner and his long, dark, ringletted hair and warm black eyes had half the city in love with him, and at least another quarter deeply infatuated.

"Gracious as ever, Mary Campbell." Gawaine's smile was loose and almost impish.

"I wonder if you could return the favour, in that case, and let me in?" Mary asked in response.

"Gods, I'm not certain that we can," Gawaine shook his head, pulling a pained expression. He rubbed the short beard covering his jaw with his ungloved hand. "We've seen a lot of troublesome folk around these parts, and I'm not sure… What's the guarantee that you're not another one of these unsavoury characters we've been looking out for?"

"I give you my word that I am not." Mary laughed. Gawaine's face lit up at Mary's playing along. Perhaps his days were longer and more tedious than he let on.

"But," Cai grimaced, feigning the same awkwardness that Gawaine was putting on, "do we have any evidence of that? We value your word, certainly, good lady, though… If you are not one of these unsavoury characters yourself, what's to say that you're not at least in cahoots with one of them? Or a whole host of them, indeed? And then, if you'll pardon even the notion, sweet woman, I'm just performing my duty to my king—what if you become led astray by one of these troublesome folk?"

"You really think I would be influenced so easily, Cai?" Mary asked, bluffing offence. The boy snorted.

"I would hate to besmirch your good name—"

"As would I," Mary chuckled.

"But these are troublesome times," Gawaine shook his head solemnly. "You know, just earlier today we had a hundred horses from _Hera_ ride in, and I tell you, even their _animals_ were rude to us!"

"Filthy mouths, they had," Cai pressed his lips together in mock-disappointment. " _Filthy."_

"Filthy." Gawaine repeated, grinning and shaking his head.

"And what of the men riding the horses?" Mary asked, giggling.

"Worse by far, would you believe it." Cai sighed. "And the king who rides with them—"

"The King rides with them?" Mary asked, surprised.

"He does," Gawaine confirmed. "But why are you so concerned by that, Miss Campbell? Have you any plans to wed the man and make yourself a Heran Queen?"

Mary wrinkled her nose and laughed out loud, shaking her head.

"None at all, I'm afraid, much as it will plague my father to hear it."

"None at all?" Cai tipped his head back and chuckled, the sound warm with friendship. "But, sweet lady, you have not met the young king yet! What measure could you have of his character, to cast him aside so quickly?"

"Measure enough, I'm sure," Mary smiled. "What do you make of him?"

"I would choose not to measure him, good woman, as my mother taught me to practice kindness and restraint whenever possible."

"A noble lesson," Mary smiled wider. "But we're among friends, as you've said—would it be possible to practice honesty over restraint, on this occasion?"

"I expect it would be," Cai's smile was lopsided and wolfish. "You want his full character?"

"As full as you can make it."

"He's a fucking prick." Cai answered, Gawaine barking out a laugh at this which quickly turned into a fit of coughing and giggling from the older man. Mary chuckled.

"What an unflattering review," Mary attempted not to laugh _too_ much. "I see what you mean by unsavoury characters—but it's evening now, and night grows near… Would you _really_ leave a lady out in the cold and dark for fear of her corruption?"

"Perhaps not," Gawaine admitted, opening the gates at last. "And in any case, I certainly would not dream of abandoning a woman as lovely as _you_ in the cold and dark."

"So it is my loveliness that saved me?" Mary asked, tilting her head to the side and regarding the soldier slowly.

"Amongst other things." Gawaine nodded.

"What other things, may I ask?"

"It's not in my nature to indulge the dreary egos of human fault and virtue;" Gawaine replied dolefully. "So I fear that I shall have to stop myself there."

"That said, it's certainly in _my_ nature to flatter and tease, as I'm sure you're aware," Cai stepped in.

"I hadn't noticed." Mary frowned gently. "You're known to flatter?" She asked, pretending to be confused.

Cai laughed again, tracing a fingertip against one of the flowers woven into Mary's hair.

"Outside of your loveliness, your wit _certainly_ had a hand in saving you."

"Oh?"

"Oh yes." Cai confirmed, expression serious. "You see, there are very few folk in this city with half a decent sense of humour, and none so good-natured as you—so, you see, in the interest of morale—at least, our own, if no one else's—we _had_ to let you in."

"You are too kind, brave knight." Mary winked at the boy.

"And you are too sweet, little lady." Cai returned, wolfish air returning.

"Not so little," Mary shook her head as she passed the soldier. "I have seen just as many summers as you, Cai, remember that."

"Gods, Cai," Gawaine shook his head in disbelief, hitting Cai playfully. "Next time you speak to another, think on how your words may be construed as patronising!" Mary giggled and waved to the two guards. "Sleep well, little lady!" Gawaine called after her.

"You too, little men!" She called back. Their laughter echoed behind her. She beamed at the sound, swaying happily to the noise of the wind on the walls of Eofor.

Climbing down the great sloping staircase that circled the Great Hall, Mary walked nearly headfirst into a boy in foreign clothing of about her age, if not a few years older. She'd never seen him before, and guessed that he must be from the party of Herans that arrived earlier that day.

"Shit—" He muttered—he certainly had the mouth of a Heran, and Mary could tell by his accent that he did not come from Eofor. He looked up at Mary from where his gaze had been, on the floor to stop himself falling, and at meeting the look he gave her, Mary had to take a step back. The Heran had dark hair, short and neat, eyes that were a mess of colour—blue, grey, green, hazel, brown—he wore a silver doublet and Mary guessed that he was important, though she could not decipher what rank he was entirely; she didn't know how Herans _normally_ dressed, after all—she'd never met one before. Something about his expression was confident, almost cocky. Mary felt something unfriendly stirring in her gut at the sight. "Next time check where you're going, girl."

Mary was staggered.

A stranger thought to speak to a girl who had clearly not seen twenty winters in this manner?

"Next time check where _you're_ going, boy." She retorted, before she could remind herself to speak to the Heran with kindness and tread through this world softly. "You were the one who walked into _me."_

The young man seemed just as taken aback by Mary's language as she was by his.

"You would speak so unwelcomingly to me before knowing who I am?" He asked incredulously, voice oddly dangerous. But Mary wasn't one to buy into men's attempts at displays of masculinity and dominance, nor was she in the mood to indulge this one's ego.

"It would seem so," She steadied herself, "and yet you ask me that, having just spoken far more unkindly to me, and without provocation. I wonder why it is you expected me not to react."

"You speak strangely." The boy replied. A smirk played across his lips, suggesting he thought he'd just won whatever verbal jousting was taking place between them. Mary thought about how immature he seemed for his age. "Why is that?"

"You're from a different kingdom to me; why do you think?"

"How do you know I'm from a different kingdom to you?"

"You're a Heran," Mary was very aware of the fact that the boy was trying to goad her. "I can hear it in your voice, I can see it in your clothing."

"You must be very learnèd for a serving girl." The Heran snorted.

"Serving girl?" Mary repeated.

"Well, I mean, you _are,_ aren't you? I can see it in _your_ clothing."

Mary squinted at him, unsure of what it was the Heran boy meant.

"And you really _must_ be Heran, for your incredible ability to insult with every sentence."

"Tell me," The young man laughed, "what colour is your dress underneath all that dirt? White or pink?"

Mary glanced down, mortified, and saw the soil from her wanderings in the forest covering her clothing. Normally she'd hardly have cared; everyone in Eofor knew Mary Campbell was a girl with a head for books and a heart for the woods—but not this Heran boy; and through her filthy clothing Mary had just provided him with whole leagues of ammunition with which to mock her.

"Pink," She answered, attempting to appear as unabashed as possible. "Pale pink."

"Oh," The boy frowned thoughtfully. "That's a pity."

"Why is it a pity?"

"Because I would have liked to see you in white." He grinned.

"I don't…" Mary squinted at the Heran.

"As in, to marry in?" The boy squinted back at her, speaking slowly, as though he considered her very dull indeed. "Brides wear white?"

"You needn't take that tone with me; in Eofor brides wear blue." She replied coolly.

"Blue?" The boy repeated, wrinkling his nose. "Why the fuck would anyone wear blue?"

Mary chose not to answer this question, for how petulant and foolish it sounded. She guessed the Heran was not used to having his word challenged; she guessed _most_ Herans were not used to having their word challenged.

"Yes, blue," She answered. "And royalty wears gold."

The Heran boy seemed to like this idea a little more.

"Gold, huh? So really, I should wish that you had been wearing _that_ colour?"

"I'm not royalty," Mary glared.

"Really?" The Heran snorted. "I'd hardly noticed."

"And if you're attempting to flirt," She bit, quickly losing her temper, though she had no idea why—normally Mary was the most patient person in all the kingdom—"then I'm afraid you'll have to take a blow to your self esteem—though I don't doubt that your ego will survive the ordeal, so don't panic yourself _too_ much—and tell you that were it _our_ wedding day, I'd have to wear all black, as a sign of mourning. Do you wear black at funerals in Hera? Or is it black for birthdays, and green for funerals? Or perhaps red for funerals? Well, in any case, whatever colour it is you associate most with death and sadness, assume that I would wear it, were we _ever_ to marry."

Finally, it seemed as though Mary had pushed too far. The boy glared at her, breathing deeply, in and out, for several long seconds—it felt more like an agonising lifetime, and Mary was just beginning to calm down and berate herself for being so rude, so unkind, to a stranger who seemed only to be the way he was because of the lenses through which he saw the world—but then the boy spoke again.

"At least black would have concealed the shit you've apparently spent your day rolling in," He bit back, lip curling, gesturing again to the dirt on her dress. "Although I can't say much for the smell. And, by the way, I do prefer my brides _not_ to be covered in feces, so I'm afraid to say you probably wouldn't make the cut, Dung Queen."

Had this been said playfully, and by a friend, Mary would have burst out laughing and pushed them teasingly, rolling her eyes and returning the shot as quickly as it had been fired with something twice as witty and nowhere near as crude. As it was, she felt nearly like crying, and her face heated to a temperature hotter than the sun itself, her eyes burning.

"It's not dung, idiot," She snarled. Mary _never_ normally insulted _anyone,_ no matter what they had said to provoke her. What had gotten into her, today, then? And what was it with this Heran? "It's _earth_. I've been in the forest, I sat down in the earth, and now it's on my clothes. And because you seem so interested, I'll tell you that I don't make a habit of rolling in shit, I'm not some animal for you to kick and insult and spit on for your own entertainment, and I'd been having a perfectly good day until you came along and ruined it, belittling me and my people. And as for you calling me a servant; I'm sure that insult would've meant a lot more in Hera, where rank equals worth, but as it is, you're _not_ in Hera, you're in Eofor—and in our kingdom we have a habit of treating all those who deserve it with respect—regardless of class. I'm afraid to say that you've rather lost my respect entirely, and, I fear, irreparably so, today—however brief our encounter has been thus far. And on top of all of that, it may interest you to know that while I certainly am no queen, nor a princess, whether that be of dung or otherwise—and that I will not, therefore be wearing gold on my wedding day, as you suggested—I _am_ daughter of two of the wisest, most learnèd Humans in all the Earthly Realms, employed by the King of Eofor himself; and that consequently I am not nearly as stupid as your words to me seem to have implied—quite the opposite, in fact—and while I wish I could say the same to you, my mother always taught me against undue flattery. If you're interested, she also taught me against rudeness, which is a lesson I think your parents quite forgot to teach to you, and one that you seem to be in quite dire need of."

Mary stood rooted to the spot, panting considerably, quite put out after this rather lengthy monologue of hers, staring at the rude, cruel boy in front of her, who stared right back, apparently completely aghast. He blinked, nonplussed, at Mary for what felt like days, before looking down, face turning red. Mary was about to storm off when he returned his gaze to her face.

"I'm—my name is John, by the way." He nodded respectfully to her. Mary squinted at him, how quickly his tone seemed to have changed.

"I didn't ask." She replied. Then she turned on her heel and continued on her way to her family's rooms in the castle. Behind her, she thought she could catch the boy calling after her her and asking what is was _her_ name was, but she didn't turn back around.

So much for treating the world with kindness. Maybe tomorrow she would do better.

* * *

 

**Jael**

**Imagine that the world is made out of love. Now imagine that it isn't. Imagine a story where everything goes wrong, where everyone has their back against the wall, where everyone is in pain and acting selfishly because if they don't, they'll die. Imagine a story, not of good against evil, but of need against need against need, where everyone is at cross-purposes and everyone is to blame."**

― Richard Siken

" _You requested an audience with me, Raphael?"_

Jael trod barefoot, softly through the caves, over the wooden walkways that must have been built and rebuilt hundreds of times over the millennia. He considered that they ought to be replaced now, too; they creaked and groaned unpromisingly beneath his feet, and he knew that he was nimble and light of foot. He cringed at the thought of the sturdy, often blushy Raphael stomping through these walkways that formed bridges over lakes of ancient, dark waters.

Raphael stood at the end of the walkway Jael now trod down, on an island made of unblemished, pale crystal, the colour of budding roses. An eerie, pure kind of light filled these caves and let anyone inhabiting them know that they were in the presence of an ancient, real kind of magic. Jael could breathe God in this place. He sensed that wasn't what Raphael had come to do.

Approaching the end of the walkway, Jael stopped neatly in front of the other Angel. Raphael turned to Jael, expression unreadable. He smiled, certainly, but there was a sobriety in his eyes that made Jael uncomfortable: he disliked the feeling in a place as pure as this. These halls, naturally formed, held the spirit of God Herself within them. And he had known the follies of noble Angels too long to be at ease with Raphael, particularly when the other Angel had asked to meet in a place such as this. They would not be interrupted here, for this was a holy place, and no one could enter unescorted unless they were of the **Na El,** or, on the odd occasion, and as Raphael was, an adult Seraph.

He curled his toes into the wood, letting its coarse surface comfort him. So little of Evadne was made of wood; the Angels that had built this great city had, it seemed, been obsessed with carving everything out of marble, granite, onyx, quartz… Everything was stone; it often felt cold to Jael, who had grown so accustomed to the wood that pervaded everything in Tyrzah: even the stone there seemed to resemble wood; a dark, warm brown, a light sandy brown, these were the colours of the buildings in his home kingdom, the palace in the capital was a pale colour that resembled the insides of trees, decorated with musky multicoloured stones and jewels and tiles—it all bore such a stark contrast to the pristine whites of Evadne.

These caves were different. These caves were ancient.

They lay at the heart of the Great Mountain; there were caves like this in every kingdom, it was why the First Angels had settled here, had lain down their staffs for shepherding and begun carving into the stone, ceasing their nomadic lives on the mountain ranges and finding rest in the very hearts of them, instead.

" _It was not I that requested an audience with you,"_ Raphael shook his head. Jael's wings bristled. He had lived on this earth for five centuries; had become a **Shamira** at twenty-one, had become a **Na El** on the eve of his hundredth birthday at the Autumn Equinox. He had been young, certainly, but knew the hearts of all living things better than many of those who called themselves prophets. He feared what it was he saw in Raphael's heart.

" _Oh?"_ Jael asked, uneasy. " _Who, then—"_

The Angel Uriel stepped out from behind a massive shard of white quartz. Jael managed to hide his surprise, but he could not hide his outrage.

" _Raphael, you are not an Archangel,"_ His jaw clenched. " _God rests in these halls. Michael has been gone not two days, and will not even be in Hera, yet—and here you are, already dishonouring his House. That you should come here unescorted is already unconventional enough, but that you should bring a_ soldier _into the caves, not in the presence of a_ _ **Na El**_ _or even an_ _ **eved shel Abra—"**_

" _Enough,"_ Raphael sighed, waving his hand dismissively. " _By the dead themselves, Jael, you of The Faith make for the_ most tedious _company."_

" _Then why would you request it, if my company is so undesirable?"_

Jael's fists were clenched at his sides. Uriel was a soldier. Raphael was of the Seraphim. If it was a confrontation they desired, in a place as sacred as these halls, then Jael would have no choice but to fight, even if the odds were stacked against him.

" _Relax, Jael,"_ Raphael rolled his eyes, " _if we wanted you dead, we would have laced your wines with aconite and simply waited. Besides, as I've already said, it was_ Uriel _who requested your audience."_

" _You would murder me with wolf's bane?"_

" _I would murder you with anything I could lay my hands on, if I had cause."_ Raphael's cool response echoed against the walls of the cavern. " _Don't give me cause, Jael."_

Jael could not say that he was surprised; he knew that Raphael was an opportunist to whom the ends _always_ justified the means. He just never expected the Sarim to admit to this.

" _Then what did you call me here for?"_ Jael asked, choosing to press on, rather than dwell on the morbid implications of Raphael's cold, calculating nature.

" _Michael intends to join the Demon war."_

" _So I have heard."_ Jael deadpanned.

" _On the side of the Humans."_

" _Are you surprised?"_ Jael frowned, taken aback. " _The Demons have sworn themselves to be enemies of our race—"_

" _You honestly believe that?"_ Uriel asked. He quirked an eyebrow at Jael, who bristled and felt tempted to take a step back. Instead, he stood his ground.

" _I believe that they made a choice when they stormed Evadne with Lucifer thirteen years ago—"_

" _Ah,"_ Uriel's lips played upwards. " _But that's not what I asked. Do you, Jael,_ _ **eved shel Abra,**_ _truly believe that at the birth of all things, the Demons turned against the Angels just as it was written—"_

" _I do not ask you to believe,"_ Jael replied tersely, " _I can only tell you that the Angels were chosen by Abra to watch over all races, but that—"_

" _And you believe that_ war _is the best way to 'watch over' all the peoples of the earth?"_

" _Michael has decided—"_ Jael started.

" _You trust his judgement?"_ Raphael asked solemnly. " _After everything? Despite how clouded his mind cannot help but be on the matter?"_

" _Michael has proven a good and faithful ruler in his years on the throne,"_ Jael bit, " _and Raphael, of all people, that you should doubt him? I find it most disturbing, for all your claims to be his most loyal servant."_

" _I do not wish to doubt him,"_ Raphael snarled for the first time in their conversation, voice finally rising as Jael's had. " _And I believe more than most that he is a good man—"_

" _You know nothing of goodness."_ Jael shook his head. " _And Michael is beloved by his people, in any case—your approval of him is less than inconsequential."_

Raphael sighed and settled himself, apparently choosing to pursue a different line of argument.

" _You are from Tyrzah, are you not, Jael?"_

" _What of it?"_

" _We are foreigners in this Kingdom, too."_ Uriel smiled. It made Jael uneasy. His tone was far too familiar. " _You lived, once, in the capital of Tyrzah, did you not?"_

" _I did."_ Jael answered, still terse.

" _I came from Tyrzah also—from a small village in the valleys between the Mountains of the Sun."_ Uriel said. His smile was wistful and calculated. This information hardly surprised Jael; Uriel had skin even darker than Jael's, which was a rich, warm brown, so that the Angel should have come from a village so close to the desert beyond Tyrzah was of no shock. " _We are not so unalike,"_ Uriel continued. Jael took a steadying breath.

" _What do you want with me, Uriel?"_ He asked, keeping his voice surprisingly even.

" _You represent one of the most important stones in one of the three pillars that hold up our world,"_ Raphael stated. " _One of those other pillars is threatening to collapse."_

" _You_ really _think so ill of Michael?"_

" _What do you think involving himself in the Demon war will do to our king? His family has hardly proved resilient to trials of the heart in the past."_

" _Michael is not—"_

" _The sins of the father, Jael,"_ Uriel reminded softly.

Jael breathed deep.

" _What would you have me do?"_

" _Stop the pillar from falling."_ Raphael said simply.

" _I cannot stop Michael from declaring war…"_ Jael reasoned slowly.

" _No,"_ Raphael conceded. " _But you can keep him from killing too many of his kin, of our kind."_

" _How?"_

" _Angel forces are stronger than Humans can comprehend,"_ Raphael said coolly. " _Their bodies are altogether both too flimsy,_ and _too brittle. They break, and easily."_

" _Persuade Michael to send but a few garrisons to aid the Herans."_ Uriel spoke deliberately softly, but something in his words still managed to be threatening. " _The soldiers among them who are older than one and twenty will be worth more than a whole legion of Humans—and in spite of his preaching about duty to race and people, do you_ really _think our king will be willing to send little Castiel off to war, when he is of age? He turns eighteen in a matter of months; the Human he is betrothed to—"_ Jael didn't need to stop Uriel and ask him how he had come to know about the supposedly secret plans for Prince Castiel's engagement, "— _went off to war aged sixteen. Michael is too biased and temperamental to do such a thing to his brother, and yet he would send off our brothers to fight his war. And it_ is _his war, in every sense of the word."_

Jael knew that at least on this front, Uriel was right.

" _We know that the Demons are far more capable than their efforts in the war with the Herans would seem to imply,"_ Raphael was suddenly sombre, no smugness or satisfaction laced his tone. " _They send their weakest to the front lines; it's as though it's a cleansing, a purging of all those deemed unsuitable—they could have obliterated Hera years ago, why did they choose not to? What were they waiting for?"_

" _You think they planned this?"_

" _Not think,"_ Raphael shook his head. "Know _."_

" _For what purpose are they doing this, then?"_

" _You are a holy man, Jael,"_ Uriel laughed, " _you have read the scriptures. You know the prophecies."_

" _The prophecies of which I_ think _you speak can hardly refer to our time."_ Jael shook his head. " _There may be two brothers in Hera, granted, but as for two brothers from the Heavenly Realms, Michael is hardly mortal enemies with either Gabriel or Castiel—"_

Then Uriel spoke the name Jael had been waiting to hear since he saw the soldier step out from behind the enormous crystal.

" _But what of Lucifer?"_

The **Na El** took a steadying breath.

" _Lucifer passed into the next world."_ He pressed his lips together. " _Thirteen years past."_

Uriel barked out a laugh. It echoed off the glittering walls of the cave.

" _You know that cannot be true, Jael,"_ He shook his head. " _You were_ there _, thirteen years ago, when Michael turned to his father and informed him of Lucifer's defeat. You saw him lie to his beloved father, and you saw how it killed him. You forget, I was there, also—no more than a humble footsoldier. And I saw you see it, too."_

" _Michael killed his father in telling him of how Lucifer had passed,"_ Raphael stated, " _and it was a lie only told because Michael couldn't stand to tell the old king of how he had failed to carry out his orders."_

" _We think that Lucifer plans to retake the throne,"_ Uriel said. Jael could see a glittering behind his eyes. " _And as he did not die, thirteen years ago, we can only assume that he is still leading Demon forces. He is planning something, and dragging the Angels into war is part of that something—we simply do not know how large a part."_

" _So all we can do is keep our involvement as small as possible."_ Raphael's expression was unreadable. " _Michael is stubborn. He would not, and he will not, listen to me."_

" _But you think he'll listen to me?"_

" _We_ know _he will."_ Uriel's smile spread far enough across his face to be a lear. " _He fears God, more than he fears his brother."_

" _So I am to blaspheme and tell him that_ Abra—"

" _You are to do whatever it takes,"_ Raphael shook his head. " _Remember what I said about poisoning you. It would be quicker and easier for us than you could possibly understand. It would not be quick and easy for you."_

Jael did not fear death.

He did not say this—he knew men of the court; and knew the games that they played. It was a danger to tell them what you feared and didn't fear. Even if it seemed of little consequence, they could use it against you.

And however much Jael did not fear death, knowing that beyond it, no matter how prolonged or painful death was made, Abra waited to welcome each of her children back into her arms; he _did_ fear whatever plans it was that Raphael and Uriel had for their world.

He would do everything in his power to stop them, just as he would do everything in his power to stop Lucifer. He knew he played a dangerous game; but Michael had trusted him enough to appoint him as Guardian of The Realm in his absence. He had his duty, and in any case, he now trod in the circles of cunning, not holy, men.

" _I understand,"_ He nodded. " _Upon his return, I will speak to Michael. I will persuade him to limit the numbers he sends into war."_

" _Good,"_ Raphael nodded. He said nothing else, only bowed and walked past Jael, up the walkway and back, no doubt, to his stone courtrooms and chambers. Jael turned back to Uriel when the Sarim had left.

" _I did not forget Michael's face when he lied to his father, Uriel,"_ He started, voice low. " _And nor did I forget yours."_

Uriel smirked, but feigned ignorance.

" _I'm sure I don't know what you mean."_

" _Oh?"_ Jael frowned. " _I saw you, also, at Lucifer's rebellion. Saw how you looked at him. You were_ captivated—"

Uriel's wings flared out behind him.

" _Do not pretend to know my heart,_ _ **Na El—"**_

" _I would not flatter myself to say that I am capable of empathising with such cunning."_ Jael bit back. " _I cannot pretend to know why it is that you have decided to consort with Raphael, when his loyalties remain so clearly fixed upon Michael's, and yours with Lucifer—"_

" _Michael's heart has grown old, just as his father's did."_ Uriel snarled. " _And while Raphael does not know of my—_ sympathies," He chose his words carefully, resentfulness seeping into his tone, " _with Michael's wayward brother, we both agree on at least two things: the first, that Michael is unfit to rule, with his heart as broken and bent as it is; and the second, that there is no God, and she will not be there to pick up the pieces when each of our High Kings or Queens—namely Michael, in this case—destroys everything and leaves us for dead."_

" _You go too far, Uriel,"_ Jael shook his head. His voice quaked with anger, now, not fear. " _You stand in the Astral Caves unescorted, with covered feet; you choose to wear_ boots _, not even sandals, on Holy Ground; you dishonor the traditions of Abra's House and you dishonour Abra Herself—"_

" _Enough, Jael,"_ Uriel rolled his eyes. He walked towards Jael, who thought for a second that the soldier was about to strike him—but Uriel simply made his way down the walkway, over the glittering, still pools of dark navy water. " _Tread softly,"_ He advised, glancing back to the other Angel. " _I cannot know your intentions any better than you know mine, and cannot pretend to understand why it is you agreed to Raphael's and my proposal, just as you cannot pretend to understand why it is I agree with Raphael that Michael ought not to send troops into war… Just, remember—we both want what will be for the good of our people. The only difference is, I know what that good is, and I know how to get it."_

" _What do you mean, 'tread softly'?"_ Jael called after the soldier. Uriel turned to face Jael and smirked again.

" _You walk with the highborn Angels, now, Jael,"_ His smile seemed to hide something, " _you'll learn soon enough, if you haven't already, of how politics in Evadne is little more than hundreds of webs formed by Angels far less compassionate, and far more intelligent than you."_

Jael didn't care much for the insult to his intellect; he knew how Uriel chose to rile his adversaries rather than reason with them.

" _You're a soldier,"_ He called after the other Angel. " _What would you possibly know of the matter?"_

Uriel didn't answer. He had, at least, given Jael the best advice the **Na El** believed the soldier to be capable of.

" _Tread softly."_

Jael would do just this: he was learning, and quickly, that there was little nobility in Evadne, and even less in politics. It was not like his life in the faith, where all served God and all were equals, even if they had differing roles under the guidance of Abra.

Politics to these Angels was like walking down the bridges and walkways in the Astral caves he stood in now. Ancient, unsturdy, built and rebuilt by imperfect men over hundreds of years. One false step, one slip, one loose plank, and Jael would end up in dark and glittering waters. He could be of no use to Michael, or to Abra, in these. And so he would tread carefully.

* * *

 

**Anna**

" **But now I have forgiven the world for the love of you"**

—Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

She had thought that she would hate her youngest brother.

The cost of Castiel entering the world had been a payment of blood; of his own mother's blood; and Anna had thought that she could never forgive him for that. She had thought that the creature who would kill the kind, gentle Angel who had been so sickly all through her carrying him must have nothing in his heart but malice, especially for those who loved him most. What cruel revenge it seemed, to kill the one who brought you into the world. How cruel the person who could do such a thing must be.

Ahava, whose name meant love and who treated everything she encountered with such love, had always been to Anna nothing less than tenderness itself. She had burrowed deep into Anna's heart and wrapped herself around Anna's soul and truly earned the title of mother; she was to Anna as beloved as the sky was to the sea.

And so any creature who damned Ahava; any creature who killed all that embodied love itself—even if this creature were a baby—could be nothing less than evil in Anna's eyes. Or so she had thought.

While Michael fawned over the newborn boy just as he had once fawned over Anna when she was an infant; only with even _more_ reverence than he had over her infant form; while Gabriel stood back and stared, troubled, out the open window toward the peaks of the other grey, white-covered mountains, the pale setting sun catching in his golden eyes; while their father sobbed over the body of his dearly beloved wife, of the only Queen he would ever love; while the infant in Michael's arms, being fussed over by wetnurses, wailed so loudly the sound bounced around the chambers and across the mountains below them; Anna stood and trembled, staring at the limp figure of Ahava, the only mother she had ever known, the only other woman in her family, and wept silently.

" _Father, you have another son,"_ Michael turned to face his father again, away from the nurses.

" _I have lost my wife…"_ Their father mumbled, slipping his fingers through Ahava's jet black, ringletted hair, so dark that it had always seemed to Anna as though the night itself had been weaved through it.

" _And you have gained a son,"_ Michael reasoned, kneeling down beside their father and presenting the newborn to him. The younger Angel lifted the baby gently to the King, but their father took no notice, only stared dolefully at his wife, eyes swimming in tears, body trembling. Anna looked away, bitterness and remorse ripping their way through her. " _Father, look at him."_ Michael frowned. " _He is_ beautiful _."_

"She _was beautiful."_

" _She is gone."_ Michael stared steadily at the High King. Anna wanted to scream and cry at her brother—how could he be so unbothered by all of this? Had he no heart? Who cared for the boy who killed their mother? " _He is here. Hold him."_

" _I cannot…"_ Their father trembled.

" _He has her dark hair—"_

Anna burst into tears. Michael turned from where he knelt, beside the bed, to look at her.

" _Anna_ ," He said, " _hold him."_

" _I can't,"_ She shook her head. " _He_ killed _her."_

" _He did nothing of the sort;"_ Michael frowned softly, perturbed, at his sister. " _He is a_ child _."_

" _His coming into this world tore our mother from it."_ Anna ripped her gaze away from Michael. Her brother stood slowly, she could feel him stare steadily at the side of her face all the while, but she refused to look at him. Even as he approached her, she had yet to even glance at the child that killed Ahava, had only glimpsed the bundle of linen that he was wrapped in. When she finally flitted her eyes back over to Michael, he was standing but two feet away from her, holding the infant as though he were made of freshly fallen snow. But there was plenty of snow on the mountains, and nothing could be precious about this delicate little boy who sacrificed another to bring himself life.

Michael looked offended by Anna's words—she was not sure which of them had disturbed him in particular; so many of them he would object to—but then he softened, and he gestured to the child once again.

" _Look at him."_ He said, voice gentle.

" _No,"_ Anna looked away, eyes burning.

" _He is beautiful."_

" _His first act was to_ kill _the one who bore him."_

" _His first act was to_ cry _,"_ Michael challenged. " _He mourned the loss of his mother as soon as air reached his lungs."_

" _All newborns cry."_ Anna's lip curled. " _There is nothing special in this one. Only hate can live in his heart."_

Besides, the baby had stopped crying, now. Surely he could not have been so very devastated by the loss of Ahava.

" _And his mother's last act was to bring him into this world. She saw how beautiful he was. She saw how important—"_

" _Don't speak of her!"_ Anna snarled. " _Don't you dare speak her name!"_

Michael did not shout. He did not look hurt. Only sad.

" _Hold him."_ He said again. He lifted the baby up to Anna. " _Sing him the lullabies that were taught to you. Sing him Ahava's favourite songs. He misses his mother."_

Anna finally looked down at the little boy in her brother's arms. Her heart trembled a little more and fresh tears leaked onto her face. Michael pressed the infant into Anna's arms, and she took tentative hold of him—as if sensing her fear and sadness, the little boy resumed his wailing. Already the infant favoured Michael—of course he would. Michael, the oldest of three, and now four, siblings, knew the hearts of infants better even than the nurses who helped bring them into the world. Anna was the youngest child. She had never held a baby before, wailing or not—and this one's crying spurred on her own.

" _Keep looking at him,"_ Michael instructed—but Anna found that she could not. She felt ill with the baby's crying, with the loss of her beloved Ahava; she wanted it to stop, wanted all of it to stop.

" _Take him back,"_ She pleaded, attempting to force the little boy back into Michael's arms. " _Please, Michael, take him back—I cannot hold him; I cannot_ stand _to hold him—"_

She was sobbing now, and so was the baby, both of them crying so loudly that the wetnurses seemed ready to scurry over and take the screaming infant out of her arms, but Michael held up a hand and stopped them from doing so. They stood back, staring at Anna, at the baby in her arms, as though she had caused all his his crying and was consequently some kind of terrible, useless, monster. Anna grew angry and bitter and desperate. _She_ was the monster?! Who in this life had she slain? She had lived on this earth two centuries longer than the bundle of linen in her arms, and yet he had killed more Angels than she ever had, or would.

" _Take him_ back _!"_ She shouted, face soaked with tears, hair damp, and the baby's crying grew louder and still more maddening, and Anna couldn't tell whether she was screaming at her brother to take the infant back into his arms, or begging Abra Herself to pull the boy out of this life and return her mother to it, in repayment.

" _Michael, for God's sake!"_ Gabriel had grown so irritated that he had snapped out of his daze, the torches lighting the room bursting upwards for a moment in his anger, orange fire spitting from Gabriel's eyes. " _She doesn't want to hold him! Listen to her! Take the boy back!"_

Michael did nothing; only flickered his eyes, moderately frustrated, over to Gabriel for a moment, not responding to his brother's anger, before turning back to Anna.

" _You are his_ sister _."_

" _I am not anything to him,"_ Anna's jaw was clenched, her body shook, she felt numb. " _I am his_ enemy—"

" _You say all these things of a_ child _."_

" _I say all these things of a_ killer _."_

" _Look at him,"_ Michael instructed again, firm but gentle. " _Look at him, and tell me that you see a killer."_

Anna bit out a sob, but looked down. The baby's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, its skin red from how loud and hard it was wailing, it did not share the dark, soft skin of its mother. But it did have a full head of hair, black and messy—just like his mother's. Anna's heart softened. She trembled a little more, remembering the softness with which Ahava trodden through the world. Would this baby be anything like his mother? Her fingers brushed against the boy's scalp for a moment, pushing back the jet, fluffy hair. The boy's crying subsided. Anna's did not. She could hardly see for tears.

" _Look at his wings."_ Michael instructed gently. Anna pulled back the linen covering them.

" _Blue and black…"_ She frowned, looking up at her brother.

" _Blue and black."_ Michael repeated. Now, Anna understood Michael's reverence.

" _And Ahava's wings were black and gold."_ Her voice cracked.

" _Yes, they were."_ Michael nodded. He watched Anna slowly. Anna did not notice Gabriel approach them until he stood right beside her, looking at Castiel's wings.

" _Blue and black…"_ He mumbled. He frowned, looking up at Michael. " _You know what this means…"_

" _I cannot know what it means."_ Michael shook his head quickly. " _Only Abra."_

" _This little boy could be the one that—"_

Anna looked up at Gabriel and frowned at him.

" _No,"_ She shook her head. " _Let him be—he's only a_ child—"

" _Anna, you know what his wings mean, don't you?"_ Michael asked, dipping his head to meet his sister's gaze.

Anna looked down at the baby. Of course she knew what it meant.

" _What are we to name him?"_ Gabriel asked

Anna bounced the little boy resting in her arms, the way she had seen mothers do to their children in the streets of her home. She still didn't know what to think of this little one—but Michael was right: he missed his mother. Ahava had carried him for nine months; nine painful, uncertain months, with no other thought than to see the child inside of her safely into this world. She had succeeded. Ahava and her baby had travelled the world and learnt of all its pain together from the confines of Evadne in the nine months of her pregnancy, and now, this poor child was to suffer the world without a mother to hold him.

And when the little boy opened his eyes, to reveal the brightest, purest blue Anna had ever seen, she knew that the baby had inherited all his mother's kindness; knew that nothing impure could enter his heart—and if it tried, Anna would not let it. Her heart did not just grow soft at the sight of the boy, now it grew loving—a real and fierce love Anna had not felt before.

This boy was a gift from Abra in return for taking the one in Anna's life she cared most about—Abra had taken away Ahava, but she had given Anna something in return—perhaps because, with two creatures so pure in this world, who would ever want to part from it? Abra had to take some of the wonder she had created and place it in Paradise, if the babe in Anna's arms were to enter it.

" _Cassiel,"_ Their father had risen, he stood just behind Michael and looked at the baby in Anna's arms with something hollow. " _Name him Cassiel."_

" _Why Cassiel?"_ Gabriel frowned.

" _It means Speed of God."_

" _I know what it means,"_ Gabriel continued to frown. " _But why that?"_

" _To remind me of the speed with which Abra may send one to take those we love most from us. To remind me of the speed with which Ahava lost her life."_

" _Ahava's death was not quick;"_ Michael protested, expression sombre. " _She died every day for nine months carrying this boy. She brought him life with her last breath. Abra did not take your wife quickly, nor did She take her to spite you."_

Had anyone other than Michael uttered these words in all the Heavenly Realms, they would have been ripped off the earth faster than the Mountain falcons flew overhead when chasing prey.

" _Besides,"_ Anna said, quietly, " _Cassiel is a name for Angels of Saturdays."_

" _The days will hardly make a difference to me now, Anna."_ The King replied bitterly. " _My wife is_ dead _for the one you seem to want to name so perfectly."_

" _Cassiel is said to be a name of solitude and tears."_ Gabriel said, looking thoughtful.

" _Then it is perfect."_ The King spat. " _And he should be happy that I have not named him Azrael, for the Angel of Death. That is what he is to me. This child_ haunts _me; and he has not taken more than an hour of breath."_

" _You blaspheme, father."_ Michael glared. " _Death is not a punishment, we should not view it as such. And this child does not haunt you, how could he?"_

" _It is said that Azrael's wings are black and gold,"_ Gabriel said slowly. Anna could have screamed at him for being so thoughtful, troubled, distant during this time—wasn't he meant to be the constantly level-headed, if frustratingly immature member of their family? Why could he not behave like an adult now, of all times?

" _Just as Ahava's are—"_ Their father faltered. " _Were."_ He corrected himself. Anna began crying again, yet the bitterness that had been eating at her lungs moments earlier had left her. " _He shall be named Cassiel, then—he does not deserve to be associated with his mother in such a way."_

" _Father—"_ Michael glared.

" _I will let his name remind me of what I have lost, but I will not let it place him anywhere close to where her light shines."_ Their father decided.

" _Cassiel was said to be a prophet of doom…"_ Gabriel stated, looking at the floor.

" _Cassiel was also a_ _ **Na El**_ _who is said to have been shown the creation of the cosmos by Abra,"_ Michael replied. " _He could have taken sadness away, but he chose not to, or so it is said."_

" _He was also said to preside over the death of Kings."_ Gabriel's expression was utterly unreadable, perhaps caught between troubled and despairing.

" _Then it is perfect."_ The King repeated, still bitter. Anna could not stand the contempt with which he regarded the little baby in her arms. It was at that moment that, no matter what her father said, no matter what her brother tried to use the little boy with blue and black wings for, no matter what the price of his entering the world was, Anna would love him as a sister should her brother, _and_ as a mother would her son. She would be mother and sister and friend and counsellor to the little Angel in her arms, and would love nothing so dearly ever again. If only to make up for the loss of Ahava—for both her _and_ the little boy.

" _It was not a King who died, but a Queen,"_ Anna pointed out, quite forgetting all her fear and sadness. " _Name him for all those who are lost, as we are now, without Ahava, that he might watch over them,_ and _us—name him for travellers, name him that he may guard your heart from sadness and keep you with God. Name him that he may shield Abra Herself from all those who would seek to defile Her, or Her name. Name him for Thursdays—he was born on one, after all."_

The three men in front of her looked up and stared at Anna. It was a long while before Michael finally spoke.

" _Castiel."_ He stated, looking at her as though he had just seen the heavens open up from her eyes. " _As Ahava's ancestor was named."_

" _Castiel."_ Anna nodded. She looked down at the infant in her arms. At his downy, brilliant feathers. Then she took a step toward her father and pressed the boy into his arms. " _Hold him gently."_ She instructed. " _He deserves all the tenderness of his mother. There is only goodness in his soul, it is the same as hers, and it sings to mine. I can hear it. I can see it."_

The High King looked down at his son, lips open, eyes watering, for what felt like days, tears falling onto the babe's face. Then he looked back up at Anna. It seemed as though he had seen all the faces of Abra Herself.

" _You are right,"_ He nodded, still crying. " _I can see it too."_ He looked down, touched the boy's forehead. " _Castiel."_ He mumbled. " _It is perfect… He is… my son. And he is perfect."_ And then, again, " _I can see it, too."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, chapter 5 might not have been what you were expecting, but I hoped you liked it, regardless! Next chapter will be from Dean's perspective, feature some heavy fluff and will be posted before/on the 15th. 
> 
> Please comment, and thanks to all those who did for the last chapter!


	6. Touched By an Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter six, as promised it's pretty much 100% Dean/Cas screen time! I hope you all enjoy.

**“I remember** **  
****how seeing the shape of your mouth** **  
****that first time, I kept staring** **  
** **until my blood turned to rain.**

 

**Some things take root** **  
****in the brain and just don’t** **  
** **let go.”**

 

**— Tim Seibles, from “Slow Dance”**

_ Poems featured in this chapter are by Maya Angelou and Pablo Neruda. _

 

Dean grins—he can’t seem to stop—and pulls on a shirt. Most of the oil on his back and shoulders has sunk into his skin now, but the fabric of the clothing still clings a little to his body. His skin is tingling from where Castiel has touched him, it still dances with lightning and fills Dean with something new and wonderful and alien; the places on his back where Castiel marked out where his wings would form prickle restlessly and a burning heat is gushing through his blood. All of it is making his head spin, his breaths feel short and shallow and thunder is growling, heavy with longing, in his bones. 

He leads Castiel softly out onto the corridor—they take one of the candles from Dean’s room with them, as well as a few matches, for relighting it when it is inevitably blown out by the wind from outside.

_Castiel is the Angel Dean is engaged to._ Just as he had hoped. He honestly can’t believe his luck; can’t believe how kind the universe has been to him to allow this one pure joy in comparison to a lifetime of sadness and bad luck.

He tries to stop himself from smiling.

It doesn’t work.

“Look,” He instructs, when they step out onto the corridor, their feet making a dull sound against the stone of the castle floor. He takes Castiel’s hand in his own, the palm of his hand resting on the back of Castiel’s, and he presses Castiel’s palm to one of the walls of the castle corridor. He convinces himself that it’s for the purpose of guiding the Angel, and nothing else. “This place is never really lit up at night, so I use the walls to guide me. Rest your palm against it as you walk. That way you won’t bump into anything, and you’ll know where you’re being led.”

“That’s very shrewd.” Castiel nods, doing as Dean says. Dean’s lips twitch upwards.

“Yeah, well you’re not the only one who likes to go on night-time wanderings when you can’t sleep. And I’ve lived here my whole life, so I’ve picked up a few tricks along the way.”

Castiel’s warm expression flickers in the candlelight and Dean has to look away; something that he can’t pinpoint flares inside of him at the sight and it makes him feel giddy with want.

“You find yourself unable to sleep often, then?” Castiel asks, and is that concern lacing his tone? 

Dean inexplicably finds himself praying that it is.

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “Lately, especially.”

“By lately, do you mean after you saw war for the first time?” Castiel asks, and Dean thinks again of how _ off _ the Angel’s social skills seem to be—Castiel’s questions are awkwardly abrupt. 

“Yes,” Dean tries not to answer too shortly. “That’s what I mean.”

There is a brief silence as Dean leads Castiel down a flight of stairs, and then down another slightly sloping corridor.

“You said you train regularly?” Castiel asks, and Dean is relieved at the change in conversation.

“I do,” Dean confirms. “Every day. What about you? Do you—at all?”

“Yes.” Castiel nods. “Three times a week, with my brother, Michael.”

“Your brother teaches you?” Dean asks. “Isn’t he pretty busy with running a kingdom?”

“He’s certainly in high demand, but I think he wants to make sure I’m learning everything he deems necessary in combat.” Castiel explains, shrugging.

“We should duel sometime.” Dean grins. Castiel raises his eyebrows at him.

“Duel?” He repeats.

“Sure,” Dean confirms, “just for fun. Nothing serious.”

“I’m not sure…” Castiel bites his lip.

“Oh, come on,” Dean replies playfully .  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Pretty much non-existent.” Castiel says, flatly. Is the boy even real? “I’ve been told by my siblings that I’m naturally very tentative.”

Dean snorts.

“Naturally tentative?” He repeats, trying not to laugh too much.

“That’s what they say,” Castiel sighs. “But then they tell me off for being too impulsive at times, and too ruled by my emotions—which is something of a contradiction if you ask me.”

“I guess it’s not  _ impossible _ to be both.” Dean shrugs. “And ‘ruled by your emotions’?” He frowns. “What do you mean by that?”

“It may have escaped your notice, Dean, but Angels are generally quite withdrawn.”

“No, I’ve noticed that, actually.” Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He is reminded of what his mother used to tell him about Angels and love. “So, are your siblings withdrawn around you, too? Even though you’re family?”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head. “We’re all very close.”

“But if you’re supposed to detach yourselves from your feelings—”

“Not completely, Dean—there’s a difference between not letting your heart rule your head, and not feeling anything at all.” 

But that doesn’t add up with what Dean’s mother had always told him.

“What about romantic love, then? My mother said your people—”

“Oh, well, if we’re talking about romantic love, then yes,” Castiel nods, “Angels are very different to Humans on that topic. My father and my mother—they were sort of exceptions, I suppose—but then they are probably also proof to many Angels of why we should control our emotions.”

“What makes you say that?” Dean asks, frowning slightly at Castiel.

“When my mother died, my father was overwhelmed with grief.” Castiel reminds.

“Oh, right.” Dean nods, awkwardly.

“Your mother knew a lot about Angels?” Castiel inquires, looking up at Dean from where he walks, his hand still tracing the walls of the castle. Dean tries not to think of how Castiel’s hands were tracing the skin of his back—however scarred the flesh may have been—only a short while previously. 

“Her parents spent most of their lives studying you—studying our Human teaching and literature and philosophy on you all. They knew more about Angels than anyone else in the Earthly Kingdoms.”

“And they passed this knowledge onto her?” Castiel asks.

“Yes,” Dean nods. “She loved learning about Angels. So did I.” Dean blushes. “She used to tell me stories; things about your kind, every evening before I went to bed. And every morning and every night, I’d sit by my window, and look out across the horizon and stare at your mountains. And I’d wish that I’d be able to go there—to see the Angels—one day.”

“You were over here, dreaming about visiting us?” Castiel asks, and Dean is slightly confused by the amusement in Castiel’s voice.

“Yes,” Dean nods, “is that funny?”

“Yes, but only because I’ve spent so much of my life dreaming of the day when I would be able to visit  _ your  _ kingdoms.”

“Seriously?”

Because why the fuck would an  _ Angel  _ want to come down into this place?

Castiel laughs.

“Seriously,” He confirms. “I always thought your way of life seemed so— _ animated. _ ” Castiel sighs, seeming satisfied even by the thought. “Do you understand?” He asks, glancing back at Dean’s probably very much confused expression.

“Not really, no.” Dean shakes his head, chuckling.

“Humans are always so busy—”

“Yes, and it’s exhausting.”

“But so is living for centuries and remaining so inhibited for all that time.”

“That’s a fair point,” Dean admits.

“And as I said, Angels generally remain so  _ separate  _ from their emotions; and it’s stifling. My family is something of an exception to this, but still, they don’t feel at  _ all _ intensely—or at least, not as intensely as I do, it would seem. And you Humans—whenever I read any of your poetry or stories, the emotions were always described so passionately. Anything from fury to love could shatter a person. And I understood. And I think I wanted to be with people who understood, too.” 

Dean looks steadily at Castiel.

The boy is something else. And Dean isn’t sure how he feels about him—he isn’t sure if he  _ likes _ how he feels.

But Castiel understands Dean—in a way that Dean hasn’t been understood by anyone else—even though the Angel is pretty damn limited in the whole social skills department; he’s perceptive—at least of what Dean feels, and Dean definitely likes that. He’s spent his whole life feeling like nobody will ever be able to understand him. But Castiel  _ does. _

And what is more, Castiel wants to be understood, too.

“I get it,” Dean nods. “It’s tough feeling like no one out there gets you.”

“Yes,” Castiel nods, and he looks up at Dean; there’s an odd comprehension that breaches both of their features, and then Castiel smiles gently, and Dean doesn’t even realise when he returns it.

“Um—it’s just here.” He mumbles, forcing himself to look down—because  _ no,  _ Dean does  _ not _ get attached like this—not to  _ anyone— _ not to anyone other than family. But then—if he and Castiel are going to become betrothed, doesn’t that sort of make Castiel family, anyway? 

No. No, no—Dean can’t get attached; Dean  _ doesn’t _ get attached. When he does, things get fucked over. And Dean doesn’t want Castiel to be something he fucks over. 

No innuendo intended.

Dean opens a door, and then there are a few steps down, before a doorless archway leading out into a grassy courtyard.

There’s a fountain in the centre, and a small peach tree, and above them, only the sky.

“I figured—you know—what with you living up so high, normally, you must get a pretty damn good view of the stars every night—so I thought you might miss it.”

Castiel gives Dean a steady look.

“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.” Dean swallows around the lump in his throat as the Angel speaks and feigns a smile. “Should I just sit down?” He gestures to the ground beneath their feet. Dean nods in confirmation.

“Yes,” He smiles, genuinely this time, and seats himself on the grass, which is slightly damp. He runs his fingers over it a moment. “It’s a little wet—is that alright?”

“That’s fine.” Castiel shrugs, sitting down beside Dean.

“My mother always used to take me here whenever I couldn’t sleep.” Dean says softly. He lies back on the grass, the tiny blades tickling and the back of his neck and ears softly. Castiel glances at him a little apprehensively before joining him in lying down.

“Thank you for showing me this place, Dean,” The other boy says softly. He turns his head to face Dean a little more, and Dean copies the action. The grass tickles the side of his face, but he realises he likes lying down next to Castiel, perhaps a little more than he should. “It must mean a lot to you, if your mother used to take you here.”

“It does.” Dean nods—but he’s never really stopped to think of just how much it means to him—and Castiel is right. It  _ does _ mean a lot to him. And for a second, he almost regrets taking Castiel here—something selfish and jealous twists in his heart; and no, he bitterly wants this place to be for only him, he wants to keep it away from everyone and anyone else—which is ridiculous, he is forced to remind himself; because people must pass through this courtyard every day, just running their daily errands—but Dean still wants to zealously keep it as his own and for the memory of his mother.

And Castiel shouldn’t be here; and Dean suddenly dislikes that Castiel is lying down next to him, that Castiel is in one of the few places where Dean actually feels like  _ himself.  _ He wants to shout at Castiel again, to tell him he should leave—

But then he glances at the Angel, and at the look in his eyes—those eyes that make Dean come up a little short of breath—and Dean has to look up at the night sky for a moment before returning his gaze to Castiel’s.

And something warm settles in his heart. This place can be his and Castiel’s place, now, just as it was once his and Mary’s—Dean trusts the other boy not to tell anyone about it—and he has decided that he likes spending time with the Angel more than he would care to admit aloud.

“But I wanted to share it with you.” Dean smiles, and he likes it when Castiel smiles too, looking away from Dean and up at the night sky.

“My shirt is very damp.” Castiel says, absently, and Dean has to laugh, because the boy is fucking  _ impossible;  _ because Dean loves the way this Angel speaks, the casual and unplanned comments that he makes, how it seems impossible to follow his train of thought.

“So is mine,” Dean laughs. Because what other response could he make? “We can get up, if you want.”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head, and Dean feels relief pulse through him. “I like lying here—with you.”

Dean smiles.

“I like being here with you, too.”

And he means it.

There is a silence. Dean hopes Castiel thinks it as comfortable as Dean finds it to be.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, turning his head to face Dean again.

“Yes, Cas?” Dean asks.

“Cas?” Castiel repeats, frowning.

“Um—as in—Castiel,” Dean swallows, “Only shorter… sorry—”

“What for?” Castiel frowns.

“I don’t know—in case you didn’t like it—”

“I like it,” Castiel smiles. Dean sighs in relief. “My siblings usually call me Cassie when trying to be affectionate. I find it very patronising.”

“Patronising is what older siblings do best.” Dean grins. “I would know.”

Castiel laughs and shakes his head.

“Your poor brother has a lot to put up with, I can tell.”

“Don’t feel too sorry for him.” Dean grins. “He can be just as annoying when he wants to be.”

“I’m sure.” Castiel shakes his head, the amused smile still lacing his lips.

“So—Cas—you’re okay if I call you that? Is it alright?”

“That’s fine, Dean.” Castiel—screw it,  _ Cas  _ beams at Dean.

“Great,” Dean smiles, looking up at the sky again. “What were you going to ask me?”

“Just that—Michael said that the engagement plan may not even happen—and I was wondering,” Dean feels his heart sink a little—“I don’t like the thought that if it didn’t come to anything, you and I would never see each other again, would never speak again. I was wondering—if, through all of this, could we promise to remain friends—even if the engagement doesn’t happen?”

Friends. Just friends. Dean snorts. He should’ve known better than to get attached.

“Because if the engagement was broken off,” Castiel continues, “we’d probably never speak again. Unless we already had a relationship—of whatever kind—already formed. Does that make sense?” He asks. “I’m only saying this because—well, I don’t want to have to stop speaking with you. Already. I enjoy your company a lot.”

Oh.

Dean smiles, despite himself.

“I enjoy yours, too.”

“So what do you think?” Cas asks.

“Uh,” Dean starts, distractedly, “of course. We can be friends, Cas.”

“Thank you.” Castiel replies, expression soft, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend before. Not a proper one, anyway.”

“Me neither,” Dean’s lips twitch upwards. “Discounting Sammy, of course. And Jo.” 

Castiel is regarding Dean with amusement. Dean doesn’t know what to do other than find Castiel’s hand with his own, and tangle their fingers together softly.

“Can you tell me more about your kingdoms?” He asks, looking at Cas, who has a look settling in his eyes that makes it feel even harder for Dean to take each breath.

“What do you want to know?” The Angel asks.

“Just—talk to me about them. Anything. I don’t care.”

“Okay,” Castiel frowns, the expression so subtle it almost isn’t there. “Why?”

“I’ve always wanted to go.” Dean shrugs. “I guess this is as close as I’m going to get. At least for now.”

Castiel sighs and settles himself further into the grass.

“There are three of them,” He starts, rubbing his forehead for a moment and looks up at the sky—Dean already knows all this, and he’s hugely tempted to tell Cas so, but he doesn’t want the Angel thinking he’s any more of a dick. 

“Three kingdoms.” Castiel continues. “There is Theia—where my brother Gabriel lives—it’s famous for its architecture and its warriors; there is Tyrzah, which is where my sister, Anna lives, which is apparently the most renowned for its artwork.” 

Dean nods, although he knows this, too. “And Evadne,” Castiel explains, “which is where I live, is the oldest of all three. Evadne means good. Theia means goddess, and Tyrzah means favourable. Michael is Evandne’s Archangel—Evadne only ever has one—and the Archangel of Evadne is always the ruler over all three kingdoms, too, and of all the Angels.”

“So, he’s the High King?”

“Yes,” Castiel nods. “We call our royalty Seraphim.”

“Seraphim?” Dean repeats, except the word feels strange on the flat of his tongue—he doesn’t say it the same way that Cas does—his tongue doesn’t curl around his consonants as Castiel’s does; they come out too hard and plain in his mouth, and not at all as elegant as under Castiel’s accent.

“Yes,” Castiel nods, although Dean thinks he is biting down on the urge to correct Dean on his pronunciation. “And our princes and princesses are called Sarim.”

“So—you’re a Sarim?”

“Yes,” Castiel confirms again.

“And you’re also one of the Seraphim?”

“That’s correct.”

“Am I saying any of this right?” Dean asks, feeling himself smile. Castiel looks up, and Dean sees a flicker of a smirk dance across his features.

“No,” He admits, “not really. But you’re trying, which is admirable.”

“That sounds a little patronising.” Dean chuckles.

“I didn’t mean it to.” Castiel attempts to ignore Dean’s laughter. “And pronunciation will probably be very hard for you, for a long while yet. Our languages are very much different.”

“Could you teach me?”

“What?” Castiel asks, looking up at Dean.

“Enochian,” Dean explains, “Could you teach me?”

“Why?” Castiel squints, tilting his head to the side. He screws up his face, however subtly, as he regards Dean, who tries not to find the look  _ too _ endearing. It’s surprisingly difficult.

“I’ve always wanted to learn.” Dean shrugs. “I’ve always found Angels interesting"

“I thought you’d always found Angels pretentious and self-righteous.” Castiel states, and Dean winces at how flat his tone has suddenly turned.

“Sorry…” Dean mumbles. He bites his lip and looks down, and hears Castiel sigh next to him. “I think you’ve already proven that I was wrong to think that way. I—I’m sorry.” He apologises again, and something awkward and bitter has filled the air between the two of them.

“No, that’s alright.” Castiel sighs again. “That was rude of me to bring up, again. I apologise.” Dean’s ears are hot. He doesn’t look back up at the Angel. “And you’d be right in thinking that Angels have frustratingly large egos,” Castiel continues. “Many of us do.”

_ “You _ don’t.” Dean states, simply, and Castiel smiles, small, at his words.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’d like to think that I don’t—but then, I may be wrong.”

“You’re very down to earth.” Dean says thoughtlessly, because he quite likes complementing Castiel, because he means what he says, because he likes the way Castiel smiles at him in response.

“Michael made a point of not bringing any of the more arrogant Angels with us on our stay.” Castiel says, and he smiles as he says it, as though he and Dean are both in on an amusing and entertaining little secret; Dean finds that he rather likes this look from Castiel, too. “Raphael, in particular.”

“Raphael?” Dean repeats, and Castiel nods. “What’s he like?”

“Terrible.” Castiel laughs, and Dean does too, due to the fact that he finds Castiel’s laughter almost as infectious as his rare albeit captivating smiles. “However patronising Michael may be to me, Raphael is tenfold worse. And while Michael treats me as a child with good intentions; Raphael does not.”

“Oh,” Dean laughs. “What else does he do?”

“He speaks very condescendingly of Humanity.” Castiel frowns. “And Anna says that she dislikes a lot of Raphael’s political standings—although I think that was said to me in confidence, so please don’t pass it on.”

“I don’t plan to.” Dean chuckles, because really, who could he possibly tell? “It’s still strange for me to see how  _ Human  _ your kind all are.”

“I can tell you think it odd.” Castiel laughs. “At dinner you pointed it out on multiple occasions. And you kept staring at me, while I ate.”

Dean flushes. Did he really do that?

“Sorry—”

“But we’re not Human.” Castiel says, thoughtfully.  “Angels are very different to your kind, and you’re right to think so.”

“But you— _ you’re  _ like one of us.” Dean says, although he isn’t quite sure what he means.

“Angels are  _ people,  _ even if we aren’t Humans, Dean.”

Dean nods.

“And you and I are not so very unalike.” Castiel says, softly. Dean looks up. What does he mean by this?

Castiel presses the flat of his palm out against Dean’s, stretching out his fingers, as though measuring their hands out against each other.

“We’re definitely not so different.” Castiel muses quietly, looking down at their hands.

“What do you mean?” Dean frowns.

“Although the worlds we come from are very much opposed, you and I are much the same. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s able to understand me, until now.”

“I don’t think I have, either.” Dean says, quietly. He looks back up into Castiel’s eyes.

They both smile.

“Why did you change your opinions on Angels?” Castiel asks after a long pause in conversation between the two of them. “What happened? What changed?”

“You mean the first time, or the second time?” Dean asks.

“Both.” Castiel shrugs, turning to face Dean a little more.

“The first time was after being in a war,” Dean explains, attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible. “My father had spent years complaining about your kind, but I hadn’t wanted to listen, because of my mom’s stories to me.”

“And then things changed when you saw our apparent neglect of Humanity’s needs.” 

Dean has to glance down at Castiel’s words.

“Well, it definitely felt like neglect…” He says awkwardly. “It  _ felt _ that way. I thought you were assholes, and I hated you for it. And the second time I changed my mind—well, it was after meeting you. And talking to Ellen. But you weren’t anything like what I expected.”

“In what way?”

“In your mannerisms, I suppose? You looked pretty much as I imagined, although I don’t think I did you all quite enough justice when picturing you—” Dean hears Castiel snort a short laugh next to him, and he blushes at it. “But I thought you’d all be really different. And I thought I wouldn’t like you very much.”

“Right.” Castiel nods.

“I was wrong though. Obviously.”

“It’s nice that you think so.” Castiel replies. Dean looks up at the sky again.

“So—Enochian—would you be okay with teaching me it?” He asks after a moment, breaking yet another silence that had fallen between the two of them. Castiel starts next to him, as though he has been lost in something of a daze.

“Yes.” The Angel nods. “That wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Thank you.” Dean smiles, and Castiel looks up at the Human and returns the look. “Could you say something to me, now, in Enochian?”

“Why?” Castiel asks, laughing. Dean likes the way that his nose crinkles when he does this. “And what would you have me say?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugs. “To answer both of your questions.”

This is something of a lie. Dean knows why he wants to hear Castiel speak in his own language. He likes the sound of Castiel’s voice, likes how rough it is against Castiel’s throat, the way it grazes the air between the two of them, how when Castiel speaks Dean often has to look down for a moment before making eye contact with the Angel again.

But he isn’t going to say this.

“Alright,” Castiel nods, amusement lining his tone yet again, “I’ll say something.”

Dean realises that he has been holding his breath. He doesn’t stop.

**_“I have very much enjoyed meeting you, Dean Winchester.”_ **

Dean doesn’t understand. Not at all. He only recognises his name; which sounds different on Castiel’s tongue—nicely so—and the words, however alien, make him beam.

**_“And I am very glad that you are the one I am to be married to. And I hope our betrothal is not cancelled. I like the thought of being engaged to you.”_ **

Castiel’s words grow more curled when he speaks, yet they become less clipped. They wind around his tongue, change in his mouth, and Dean can see the way that Castiel forms them, can hear his accent more clearly, can hear the mountains and the sky in his voice, and when Dean looks up into Castiel’s eyes, his breath stutters in his throat.

**_“I like that thought very much, Dean Winchester.”_ **

“What did you say?” Dean asks. He stares at Castiel, but cannot nearly mimic the intensity of Castiel’s gaze upon his face.

“It doesn’t matter.” Castiel muses quietly. Dean forgets to breathe when Castiel pushes a few stray strands of hair back from Dean’s forehead, his fingers grazing absently at Dean’s skin.

“What—” Dean tries again, but he can’t breathe, and Castiel’s eyes are puncturing his flesh, and Castiel’s lips twitching upwards into some kind of understanding make Dean’s mind collapse in on itself.

“The first time, I said that I had very much enjoyed meeting you, today.” Castiel explains, and Dean has to swallow hard and blink, before regaining his composure.

“I enjoyed meeting you too—” Dean manages to rasp out. “What did you say after that?” Dean asks, and his words feel a little too rough against his throat—but an understanding has breached both of their features, and the air between them is thick with it, even if neither of them can say it aloud.

“Maybe one day you’ll understand.” Castiel says quietly.

“I already do.” Dean replies, feeling indignant, but Castiel looks down and bites down on a laugh.

“I meant Enochian, Dean. One day you’ll understand what I said, in Enochian.”

“Oh.” Dean’s throat still feels rough. His face heats with embarrassment. He looks away.

Castiel’s fingers squeeze gently at his, and Dean starts a little—he’d forgotten that their hands were pressed so neatly together. 

“I’d expected you to hate me, originally.” Castiel states thoughtfully. Dean looks back at him.

“Why?” He asks.

“I’d thought you’d resent me—that you’d feel as though I’d stolen your opportunity for happiness.” Castiel attempts to explain, but it makes so little sense to Dean, because he feels something  _ beyond _ happiness when he is lying here with Castiel, speaking to him and hearing Castiel speak.

“What do you mean?” He frowns; how could he  _ possibly _ resent Castiel? He had originally, but then he had  _ seen  _ the Angel, then he had spoken to him, and something has untied inside of Dean’s heart and left him more open and vulnerable than he has been since the death of his mother.

“You were practically being forced to be married to me. And before that, you would’ve had the possibility of marrying whomever you wished. I thought you would resent me.”

“I couldn’t ever resent you.” Dean replies. And he’s telling the truth.

Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand again.

Dean tries not to think about how much he likes it.

“Maybe we should get back inside.” Castiel suggests. Dean’s heart crumples inside his chest.

“Yeah,” He nods, looking away. “I’ll take you back to your room.”

Dean sits up, and the damp from the grass has made his shirt cling to his skin. He hears Castiel sit up next to him.

“Thank you very much for taking me down here, Dean.” Castiel says softly. “And for talking to me for so long. I found it very comforting.”

“Well, you were the one who comforted me, first.” Dean attempts to laugh, but he has to look down, away from Castiel when he says this, and he isn’t quite sure why.

Castiel smiles again; although it is only slight, it is enough to send lightning shooting through Dean’s system. 

“I hope this stay lasts a while, Dean.” He says, and Dean’s insides twist with quiet elation.

“I hope so, too.” Dean returns, and he tries not to let his pleased grin become too obvious.

 

* * *

 

 

When Dean wakes up, he realises that it is one of the few times that he has been able to sleep for several hours straight without his sleep being disturbed by some form of nightmare.

He rolls over in his bed, blinking at the sunlight creeping through a crack in his heavy curtains, and sits up, rubbing one of the scars on his arm. It doesn’t hurt as much as it normally does. 

Dean smiles at the thought of Castiel.

He lies back down on his bed, the back of his head falling onto his pillow, and stares up at the maroon canopy of his bed, recalling the feeling of Castiel’s hands on his back.

He knows he shouldn’t; knows it didn’t mean anything like that, but at the same time, it just feels so  _ right;  _ Dean finds that he likes to think of how uncertain Cas’ fingers first felt, before a warm familiarity crept into them, how Dean had had to close his eyes and bite back a sigh that would’ve probably been caught somewhere between that and a moan as it escaped his lips. 

His skin dances at the memory of Castiel’s touch.

“Dean?” Ellen calls into Dean’s room, knocking on the door, and Dean scrambles to pull his covers over his body again, because  _ fuck,  _ it looks like he got a little too excited thinking about Castiel.

“What is it?” He groans back, curling up underneath his sheets in a manner that he hopes will make it look as though he has only just woken up.

He hears Ellen open the door to his room, although his back is facing her, Dean presses his head more firmly against the pillows.

“You’re going to have to be up and downstairs in about an hour, and after last time, I thought I should give you some fair warning.” Ellen explains.

Dean hears her sigh behind him and assumes that she is once again complaining about the state of his room; which Dean would love to point out is what his servants are for, but he knows for a fact that Ellen would not appreciate that kind of comment. And neither would Castiel if he heard it, now that Dean thinks about it.

“Right,” Dean grumbles. “Well, I’ll be up and dressed in a minute, then.”

“Okay,” Ellen replies, a little frustrated, and it sounds like she doesn’t believe Dean’s promise one bit, but at least she leaves .

Dean pulls back the covers and glances down, hoping that he won’t have to take a cold bath to settle himself, but it looks as though he may need to. But then, there isn’t really enough time for that, which is frustrating.

Either that, or Dean could—

No,  _ fuck,  _ Dean couldn’t do that.

It’d be  _ wrong,  _ Cas is a friend, Cas is an  _ Angel— _ but then, the two of them are technically engaged, so would it really be so bad?

Dean brushes his hand down his chest, down the line of his stomach. He lets out a sigh and imagines that it is Castiel who is doing this to him.

Perhaps Castiel would be tracing Dean’s skin with the tip of his tongue, staring up at Dean thickly and possessively through those dark eyelashes of his.

His breath catches in his throat.

Cas seems like an innocent enough person—oddly so—but Dean likes the thought that he could turn Castiel into some filthily possessive bastard, that behind closed doors Cas would give the hottest, hardest fuck imaginable.

Dean swallows hard and tries not to groan.

He’s experienced—not  _ hugely,  _ but he’s experienced in this area; he knows he’s desirable and know that every young person in the kingdom considers him to be just that, whether or not he’s the son of the King, and he’s taken advantage of it before, but… There’s something about Castiel; something different to all those other passing fancies Dean has had, the kisses stolen in broom cupboards, the winks and the flirting. Something about Cas seems special, sacred, even—which is why Dean feels guilt, as well as pleasure, sear across his skin as he thinks about the Angel in this way. 

He teases himself by brushing his hand slowly against the skin of his cock, and he feels his eyes flutter closed. He imagines Castiel kissing down his skin, mumbling words of affection against it, and  _ that’s  _ the thought that really does it for Dean, and the moan tumbles past his lips before he can even think to stop it; fuck it, he’s not going to tease himself any longer.

His head presses back on the pillow, and he imagines Cas’s mouth wrapping itself around his dick, while Dean lies back on his bed, unable to do anything else—maybe Cas is holding him down—and  _ fuck,  _ that shouldn’t be as hot a thought as it is.

Or maybe Cas is standing up, or sitting on his bed, and Dean is the one with the dick in his mouth; and Cas’s hand is on the back of Dean’s head, fisting at his hair, pushing Dean’s head closer towards Cas’s body, forcing Dean to take Cas deeper inside his mouth.

Dean likes that thought, too.

He likes the thought of pulling back from Cas with his mouth dripping Cas’s release; watching the way the Angel’s eyelashes flutter and his chest stutters as it rises and falls. He likes the thought of the Angel’s wings spread wide behind him as he and Dean kiss, in some terrifying, beautiful display of arousal. Of possession. Of devotion. 

Dean likes the idea of Castiel being so  _ owning  _ in the sack, and now that the thought has entered his mind he’s unable to leave it alone; he finds himself unable to stop playing with it—he likes the idea of him being able to let go, to go loose and limp under Castiel’s hands; pleasure flooding his body—and fuck, _ fuck, _ Dean is coming, and a moan that sounds suspiciously like Cas’s name is escaping his lips, and  _ shit  _ he forgot to get a rag or  _ something  _ for him to spill on to. 

And now spunk is covering his stomach.

Fuck.

Dean is going to have to clear that up.

He wipes down the mess on his skin with an old shirt—he’ll probably have to put that in a laundry basket himself, so no servants see—and runs a hand through his hair. Ellen will undoubtedly make a comment about how messy it is when she next sees him.

Dean dresses himself quickly. Contrary to yesterday, he actually opts for something pretty smart—it’s not that he wants to impress Cas—not really. Or, if it is, it’s only  _ partially _ because of that. He wears a purple doublet—it reminds him of all the lilac his mother used to wear—with bronze fastenings, a navy undershirt, and simple black hose.

Ellen comes in again about half an hour later, and seems a little surprised that Dean is up and dressed—particularly so nicely.

“I was  _ sure _ I’d have to rush you.” She hums, thoughtfully. “Well done for getting dressed, anyway.”

“Thanks, Ellen, that’s not at all patronising.” Dean deadpans, rolling his eyes as he pulls on his boots.

“Sorry, honey,” She apologises, and Dean doesn’t bother to point out that this, too, is a little condescending. “Why’re you dressed so nicely, anyway? You definitely seem to have changed your tune from yesterday.”

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugs, attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible, but it’s strangely difficult. “I guess you were right—I mean, this  _ is _ kind of a big event. I thought I should at least make myself look presentable for it. Is that reasonable?”

“Well,” Ellen nods, pressing her lips together in a thin, unconvinced line. “It’s fair enough, I suppose.” Fuck, she  _ really  _ doesn’t seem to be buying it. “Anyway, you’d better start heading down now, if you want to be on time.”

“Okay—is Sammy coming, too?”

“Sam’s already down there.”

“Sammy’s a bit too excited about this, isn’t he?” Dean grins, but Ellen only smirks back at him. 

“From what I’ve heard, Dean, so were you, yesterday.”

Dean feels his face heat.

“That’s not—”

“Come on,” Ellen gestures, waving at him to leave the room. “You don’t want to keep Prince Castiel waiting now, do you?”

And Dean doesn’t have a response to that.

So instead he exits his bedroom, his face burning with embarrassment, which was probably Ellen’s intention the whole time. He scowls at her on his way out.

“That’s not the kind of look you should fix on the lady who basically raised you, boy.” Ellen reprimands, but the smirk still drawn across her features does nothing but kindle Dean’s resentment further. “And there’s no need to look so sour, too—you’ll want to look your best, for—”

“Stop it, Ellen.” Dean groans, sure his ears are on  _ fire  _ right now. “And why do you keep on bringing him up?” 

“I saw the way you were looking at him, yesterday.” Ellen laughs. “And the way the two of you were talking over dinner.”

“We were only talking.” Dean mumbles as he ambles with Ellen down the castle halls.

“Sure you were.” Ellen laughs, and Dean doesn’t think he knows what she means;  _ or  _ what she finds so amusing. He’d want to feel angry at her, usually, but now he’s wracking his brain wondering  _ how exactly  _ it was he and Cas were talking—and what it meant to Cas—and so he lets her comment and the amusement lining her features slide. 

Instead he concentrates on the cold, stone halls of his home, because it’s less frustrating than watching the smirk curl at Ellen’s face.

“I had time to speak to Bobby, last night,” Ellen continues, and this time, it’s Dean who smirks.

“Robert.” He corrects, laughing, looking back up at Ellen.  _ “Sir Robert _ , to you, Ellen.” 

“You sound like your father.”

“I’m only kidding.” Dean protests, but Ellen smiles and nudges Dean.

“No, I know, sweetheart.” She soothes. Dean rolls his eyes and tugs at the sleeve of her dress, the colour of fresh plant buds of the springtime. 

“This is nice,” He comments, lips tugging slyly upwards. 

“Thank you.”

“ _ Very  _ nice.” Dean grins.

“What are you getting at, boy?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugs. “Maybe it was a gift?”

“I made it myself, Dean.”

“And where did you get the cloth?” Dean has to stop himself from leering. “It seems a little out of the range of a servant’s wages…  _ And  _ I heard a certain Sir  _ loves  _ the colour green—”

“If you’re trying to imply—”

“I’m not trying to imply anything.” Dean raises his hands in mock-surrender. “I just said I liked it.”

Ellen presses her lips together and squints at Dean a moment, looking entirely unamused.

“Anyway, I was talking to Sir Robert,”—Dean snorts, and Ellen hits him lightly—“and he said Castiel was the one you’re supposed to become betrothed to. Did you know that?”

“I did.” Dean nods shortly. He has to stare ahead of them for a moment to regain himself.

When Dean looks up at Ellen again she doesn’t say anything. She isn’t wearing an amused or teasing smile, surprisingly, and is instead looking at Dean with steady, soft eyes, encouraging him to continue.

“I’m still pissed off that I’m being used as some kind of bartering tool, if that’s what you want to know.” He frowns slightly, even though he feels guilty about his tone with the look Ellen gives in response.

“I get that, Dean, and I’m sorry—but how do you feel about it being  _ him?” _

Dean swallows, his eyes flitting back to his feet.

“I’m glad it’s him.” He replies, honestly. “I wanted it to be him.”

“That’s good.” Ellen smiles warmly.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, agreeing, however absently. “And I think he’s glad it’s me, too.” he admits, a smug smile stretching across his features.

“I’m sure he is.” Ellen beams.

“What makes you say that?”

Dean dislikes how desperately curious he sounds when asking this.

“Well, he was looking at you just the same last night, at the feast.” She states, nodding at a servant who passes the two of them by. The servant nods back to Ellen, and offers Dean a short bow, and a greeting of  _ ‘Your Highness,’  _ which honestly makes Dean’s skin crawl more than anything else, and he nods back uncomfortably before looking away.

“You’re lying.” Dean half laughs out, resuming conversation.

“I’m not.” Ellen says, matter-of-factly. “And why would I, Dean?”

“So you saw him?” Dean asks, avoiding Ellen’s question. “When he was talking to me—you saw what he looked like?”

“Yes,” Ellen laughs. “You really like him, don’t you?” She asks, although it’s far more a statement than a question, and Dean has to look away again.

“Yeah, but—”

“But, what?”

“But he’s an  _ Angel—” _

“Why should that make any difference?”

“And I’ve only known him for one day—”

“I asked if you  _ liked  _ him, Dean—”

“But, see, it’s not  _ just  _ about liking, is it?” Dean snaps, scowling at Ellen. “Because you’re asking me to marry him.—And I know it’s not you, specifically, but I’m still becoming engaged to a boy that I barely know, because my father and King Michael want to honey up the Angel-Human relations—and—and it’s not fair! It’s not how I’d want things to happen—I’d want it to be slow, with Cas, you know? I’d want things to happen properly—I’d want—” Dean cuts himself off. His face is burning. “I wouldn’t want this. I’d want it—I’d want it to be real.” He says this last confession with an awkwardly quiet voice.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Ellen says softly.

“Yeah? Well, not as sorry as me.”

“It can still be real.” Ellen attempts to soothe, and Dean feels the palm of her hand rest on his shoulder; he is very tempted to shrug it off with no more than a scowl.

“No, it can’t be, and that’s the whole point. Because neither of us  _ chose  _ to go into this. So even if I like him—it’s not how it should be. It’s not how  _ Mary  _ would want it to be.”

Ellen goes quiet again. The two don’t speak until they reach the doors of the main hall. The silence between them is almost painful, Dean can hear blood gushing in his ears, and he feels guilty for snapping at Ellen when she has only ever wanted what’s best for Dean, when she’s the only one who’ll listen to Dean when he says he doesn’t think he’s ready to do any of this.

They stop outside the hall, and Ellen turns to face him.

Dean feels very tempted to look down again, but he doesn’t. It’s one small victory at least. In a sea of defeat.

“You can  _ make  _ it real, Dean.” Ellen says, and her hand has returned to his shoulder, and this time, Dean doesn’t feel tempted to brush it aside. Not in the slightest.

“How am I supposed to do that?” He asks, and he knows he sounds childish, but he doesn’t care, because this is Ellen, and he loves her, and she’s right; she basically  _ raised  _ Dean, and Dean knows she misses the days when Dean was small enough to curl up in her arms for comfort or to cry into her shoulder. So now, he lets her mother him, and he lets her pull a ridiculously sentimental face and pull him in for a tight hug, and he even lets himself be comforted by it, even allows himself to soak up its warmth, to feel safe and contented even if it is for just a few seconds.

“You’re a smart kid,” Ellen smiles warmly, pulling back from Dean. He tries not to feel too upset by the break in contact. “You’ll figure out a way.”

He sure as hell hopes so.

Entering the hall, he smiles a goodbye to Ellen as she pats his shoulder softly, and is relieved to see that he’s not late today, at the very least.

“Dean!” Sammy grins, waving at Dean, who laughs and returns the look to his younger brother. The hall has been set back to its original state now, aside from a single long table running in front of the thrones, at their feet. Dean assumes it’s for John and his advisers, along with Michael and all of his council, to sit at later—no doubt chairs will be put at it, but for now—and in the name of the aesthetics of ceremony—it is kept entirely bare. Dean’s father and brother are seated at the head of the hall, on their thrones. Today, King John is all awash with reds, golds and oranges, not the colours of his kingdom, but certainly those of prestige. Dean cringes at the thought of his father flouncing his wealth so blatantly in the faces of the Angels—especially when each of them is almost certainly rich beyond the measure of Human imaginations. 

Dean glances at the empty throne between Sammy and the King, and feels the familiar, raw pang of pain tear at his heart. He swallows thickly and sits at his own throne, on his father’s right.

“What’s going on today?” He asks his father, who doesn’t greet him a good morning. Dean notes the bags under his eyes and wonders how late he and King Michael had to stay up discussing matters.

“You’ll be entertaining Prince Castiel. Apparently the Angel King thinks it important that the two of you get to know each other a little better.”

Dean tries not to feel too elated about this.

“Can I come?” Sammy asks, grinning—and any other time, Dean would be more than glad to take his brother along—but this is Cas, and Dean is weirdly jealous over him; and something crude and envious curls in his heart and he wants to keep the dark haired Angel all to himself.

“If you must,” King John shrugs, and Dean has to stop himself from sighing resignedly. He forces a smile in his brother’s direction instead.

“Thank you, father!” Sam beams, shifting in his throne. “What’re we going to do, Dean?” He asks, and Dean has to avoid eye contact with his brother for a moment to hide his disappointment.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I guess I’ll have to think about that.”

“Well, think quickly. They’ll be coming in, soon.” John points out. Dean doesn’t look up at his father. He spends the rest of their wait in silence, which is something he’s pretty good at. 

According to both Ellen and Bobby, is a state he spent almost a year being in after the death of his mother. 

Dean doesn’t remember much about that year—only that he spent most of his nights sat in Sammy’s crib, arms curled around his younger brother; and that on many occasions someone would try to pry a word out of Dean’s mouth, but to no avail. Dean can remember looking up at his father, and seeing him crying for the first time. And then seeing him drinking heavily more nights than not.

Dean’s father tried to get Dean to speak, too, and maybe took it as personal offense that he  _ couldn’t,  _ but it wasn’t anything personal—and Dean spent the time he would have otherwise spent chattering away absorbed in books about the Angels. He could barely read them, and would more often than not hold one of these books up to someone who could read them aloud for him; but occasionally there would be diagrams of Angel wings or eyes or, if Dean was lucky, their whole bodies.

And Dean had been convinced that if he found an Angel, he would be able to persuade them to bring his mother back.

Dean is sure it was Sam who had first pulled a word from his lips. He’s more than sure. Through everything— _ everything,  _ Sam has been his best friend, his closest companion. More than a brother.

He remembers when Sammy took his first steps, how he had walked over to Dean. Dean had felt something proud and special swell in his heart—and then Sam had fallen flat on his face, and Dean had stumbled over to him, blood rushing in his ears. He hadn’t wanted Sammy to fall. He never wanted Sammy to fall. He’d been crying almost as much as Sammy had.

In any case, Dean still likes the silence; it gives him time to think. He thinks his father knows this—maybe that’s why they spend their time together, so quiet. Maybe it’s because JOhn has nothing left to say to his eldest son. 

The sound of the doors swinging open again practically makes Dean jump out of his skin. 

Castiel stands at Michael’s side, and his lips twitch upwards as soon as he makes eye-contact with Dean—which makes Dean’s face burn a furious, happy red.

“Dean,” The King says, after welcoming their esteemed guests once again—Dean tears his eyes away from Cas’s face, “You and Samuel may leave us, now.”

Dean nods and stands up, and Sammy practically races over to Cas’s side—the jealous something curls inside of Dean again, and spikes up when he sees how animatedly Sam is chattering away to the Angel.

Dean is about to walk quickly toward them when he feels a hand tug at his own, stopping him short.

He looks down to it and some odd kind of happiness spikes inside of him when he sees that it is his father’s. He wonders when it was John last touched him like this, even on the hand. He can’t remember the last hug he received from the King.

“Have fun.” John smiles, and Dean frowns, because this is nothing like his father, and the smile on John’s face is more pained than anything else, and Dean actually thinks that John may be about to start  _ crying— _ “Your mother would’ve liked this.” He states shortly, and does Dean hear his father’s voice break, as he says this?

“She would’ve.” Dean nods. He squeezes his father’s hand on instinct, and then wonders if perhaps this was a mistake.

“She would’ve loved it.” John corrects himself distantly, and then he looks back up into Dean’s eyes, and the sheet of glass clouding at them slides away, and Dean’s father is back to normal. Dean almost feels sad at this. “Go on,” He gestures, motioning Dean away, and Dean nods, leaving his father’s side.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel smiles as Dean reaches his brother and the Angel.

“Good morning, Cas.” Dean replies, mind still playing over his father’s words, confused.

“What was that about?” Sammy asks, frowning a little. Dean doesn’t need Sam to nod over to their father to know what his younger brother is speaking of.

“I don’t really know.” Dean replies honestly, shaking his head. The three of them exit the main hall.

“What do you have planned, Dean?” Castiel asks, turning to smile at Dean. Dean doesn’t miss the way Sammy smirks at him as Dean’s face heats.

“Um—I wasn’t really sure… I mean, I could teach you to ride for a bit, if you want?”

“That sounds wonderful.” Cas replies happily.

“You don’t know how to ride?” Sam asks, and Dean is reminded again of his brother’s presence there; of how it makes jealousy twist up inside him, and he doesn’t like it—Sammy is all he has—and he doesn’t think he likes how Cas makes him feel anymore.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “Angels don’t generally ride. It would be very difficult to up in the mountains, anyway.”

“Of course.” Sammy nods like this makes a lot of sense, and Dean holds back his scowl when he notes that Sam is walking between himself and Castiel.

“How long have you known how to ride, Dean?” Castiel asks, and the smile is quickly set back on Dean’s features; he feels like such a damn fool when he looks at Castiel—and he can tell his face is going red again, but he doesn’t really care.

“I don’t know—basically since forever.” Dean shrugs. “My father always thought it was really important that we learn from a young age.” Dean leaves out the detail that John did this so that he and Sam would be prepared for fighting and riding in battle.

“That’s lucky.” Castiel nods. “I have always wanted to learn.”

“Well, you will, soon.” Dean grins, and Cas smiles back, and he’s almost forgotten that Sammy is there with them, until his brother coughs again. “Um—” Dean snaps out of his daze, awkwardly. “—The Royal Stables are out this way.”

He leads Castiel outside, past a group of bustling servants—Dean attempts to avoid eye contact with all of them, so none of the group feel obliged to bow and greet him—and round the corner, where the stables sit.

“Here they are,” Dean attempts to smile, but while he was concentrating on avoiding the servants, Cas and Sam dropped deep into conversation, leaving Dean out, and now Dean just feels the cool pang of envy all over again. “Should I find a horse for you?”

Castiel shrugs and nods, and Dean hates that he has to leave his brother and the Angel to only become better acquainted, and so his entry into the stables is marked mainly by him scuffing his shoes angrily on the straw-covered floor.

Some of the horses shy away from the sound.

He considers giving Cas his own horse, but then, Dean will probably want to ride her himself, and Impala can be kind of difficult to handle if she’s not used to her rider. Sam will want his own horse, too, and a lot of the others would either be too big or too small for Castiel, anyway. It’s difficult to find one appropriate for the Angel; and Dean spends a lot of time ruminating over how much Castiel’s wings might weigh—but in the end, he picks out a tall, dark stallion for Cas; and tries not to think about how the horse’s colour will match the Angel’s wings and hair so perfectly.

“I think this one would be best for you.” Dean smiles as he walks the horse towards Castiel. “He’s called Shadow, and he’s pretty docile. He’ll be good to start out on.”

Castiel eyes the horse a little uncertainly.

“He’s very pretty.”

“Yeah, he’s a handsome fella.” Dean laughs. “Come on, let’s get you saddled up.”

Dean notices that Cas still looks a little uncertain as Dean fastens the bridle and saddle on the horse, and raises his eyebrows at the Angel.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, remember?”

“Yes, I know.” Castiel nods, although he still sounds and looks apprehensive.

“And I’ll be right here.” Dean reminds. Castiel glances at him and smiles.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“That’s alright.” Dean blushes. “Shall we get you on, then?”

“Okay,” Castiel nods, “How do I—”

“Put your foot here,” Dean locks his hands together. “And swing your other legs over. Hold on to that bit of the saddle,” Dean gestures to it, “as you get on. It’ll make things a whole lot easier.”

Castiel does as Dean has instructed, and mounts the horse without too much difficulty.

“There you go.” Dean smiles. “Are you okay, up there?”

“I think so.” Cas nods, but he still looks a little nervous.

“It’s okay to be anxious on your first time.” Dean reassures. “Hold onto the reigns like this,” Dean instructs, folding Cas’s fingers over the leather, admitting to himself for a moment that he greatly enjoys the excuse to touch Castiel’s hands. “If you want to turn right, tug on the right hand side of the reigns, and the same with left. Pull both sides back and hold them there to stop your horse. Are you getting any of this?” 

Castiel nods.

“Good. Your feet should really be here,” Dean moves Castiel’s legs. “Just remember to keep a good posture, and your feet will kind of slip into the right position, on default.”

“Okay.” Castiel bites his lip a little apprehensively.

“There’s no need to be scared, Cas.” Dean reminds, smiling perhaps a little too affectionately. “If you want to go forward, kick the horse with your foot. Either will do.”

“Kick?” Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows, and Dean has to smirk at how concerned he looks.

“Not  _ kick _ kick _.”  _ Dean corrects himself. “But a hard tap—it needs to be firm, otherwise they won’t notice. It won’t hurt the horse. Just try that, now.”

Castiel does this, and the horse begins to move, which immediately unsettles Cas.

“Oh no—” He says, and he glances back at Dean, concerned, if not absolutely panicked, which makes Dean smile still more. He has to bite down on laughter, certain that the Angel wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Pull the reigns if you want him to stop.” Dean reminds, and Castiel tugs at them, still looking a little terrified. “Are you alright?” Dean asks, catching up with Cas.

“I think so.” Castiel nods. “I’m not very good at this.” He laughs, a little shyly.

“You’re doing great for your first time.” Dean grins. “Look, let me lead you into the stables, I still need to get my horse.”

“You’ll be on a horse, too?” Cas asks, and he still looks adorably nervous.

No. Not adorable. Dean needs to get a grip.

“I will, but I’ll still be able to help you if anything happens, Cas—don’t worry.”

“You promise?”

“Of course.” Dean smiles. “I swear.”

Sam comes out on his horse now, interrupting the moment; Dean once again sighs internally at the presence of his brother, which only makes him feel  _ more  _ guilty, because if it weren’t for Sammy, what would Dean have left in this life? So why is he resenting his brother’s presence so much?

Dean pulls at the reigns of Cas’s horse and leads him into the stables, where he saddles up his own, and mounts it.

“This is your horse?” Castiel asks, gesturing to Impala, still looking a little less uneasy on Shadow.

“Yeah,” Dean beams. “She’s called Impala.”

“How long have you had her for?” Cas asks.

“A while.” Dean admits. “Ever since I learned to ride properly. Me and Sammy both started out on ponies, see, ‘cause we were so young when we first started out. Are you still feeling alright, up there?”

“Yes,” Castiel nods. “I’m starting to get used to it, I think.”

“Good.” Dean’s lips twitch a little further upward. “See if you can lead him outside the stable.”

Cas nods, although he looks a little apprehensive about this, and turns his horse around.

“Looking great so far, Cas.” Dean smiles, and he hears Cas huff a breath of relief as Shadow makes it out of the stable doors.

“Does Michael know how to ride?” Sammy asks, when the two of them have made it outside.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms. “He does.” 

“Why’s that?” Dean frowns slightly, tugging at the reigns so Impala stops beside Cas and his horse. “I thought it wasn’t really possible, up where you live?”

“Michael learned,” Castiel shrugs. “I think when visiting Human Kingdoms long ago, much like I am now.”

“So Michael has met Humans before?”

“Yes,” Cas confirms. “But that was a long time ago. Back when our brother, Lucifer, was still around.”

“Lucifer?” Dean repeats, frowning at the name, because it sounds a little familiar.

“Yes—he rebelled, though, long ago—so I never knew him. He was Michael’s twin.”

“Angels can have twins, too?” Dean raises his eyebrows, and maybe he sounds a little  _ too  _ surprised, because both Sammy and Cas laugh, at this.

“Yes, Dean, we can.” Castiel laughs. “Angels and Humans are not all  _ that  _ dissimilar, you know.”

“But you kind of are,” Dean protests, and Castiel frowns questioningly at him. “Your people have  _ wings,  _ for a start.”

Cas chuckles softly.

“Our wings are not so  _ very  _ strange, Dean.”

“—I didn’t mean it like that—”

“I know,” Castiel reassures. “Where are we going?” He asks as Dean steers his horse outside of the castle gates and down into the land below.

“Me and Sammy usually go riding in the forests—either that or in fields near the castle. Which would you prefer?”

“I don’t mind.” Castiel shrugs. “Maybe the forest—our visit got cut a little short, yesterday, after all.”

“Right,” Dean blushes again, and Sam frowns between his brother and the Angel, but Dean manages to avoid making eye contact with his younger sibling.

“Did you know how obsessed Dean used to be with Angels, Castiel?” Sam asks, grinning, and Dean scowls at his brother, who only grins mockingly back at him.

“I’ve heard, yes.” Castiel laughs.

“Do Angels get told stories about Humans, like we get told about Angels?” Sam asks, and Dean makes a point of looking away from his younger brother.

“We’re told about you, certainly; but I think the manner in which Humans are told of Angels is similar to that of fairy tales, more than anything else. Would I be right in saying this?”

“That sounds fair enough.” Sammy shrugs.

“Well, Angels aren’t really told about Humans in a way that makes you all sound mystical and supernatural. Perhaps that’s because many of us—if not  _ most— _ who are alive today have met and interacted with Humanity.” Castiel explains, and Dean reminds himself that the space of time between the Angels’ last visit to the Earthly Kingdoms and this one is only a fraction of one of their lifetimes.

“How long can Angels live for?” Sammy asks, and he sounds  _ seriously  _ impressed—something which Dean would smirk at, if it were not for the fact that he had been affected in much the same way by this information yesterday. If anything, Dean had been  _ more  _ impressed.

“A great deal of time—to Humans, at least.” Cas smiles, and Dean doesn’t like the affection he regards Dean’s brother with.

“How old are you?” Sammy asks.

“I’m turning eighteen in a few months.”

“And that’s in Human years, too?”

“Yes,” Castiel confirms, his lips twitching still further upwards. Dean tries not to scowl. He hates himself for being so jealous. “Our years are the same as Human years.”

“So you’re around the same age as Dean?”

“I am.” Castiel nods, turning to smile at Dean. Dean’s lips are only tugged slightly upwards in response.

“And how old is Michael?”

“Very old, to you.” Castiel laughs. “Although in Angel terms, he is incredibly young to be the High King.”

“How old is that, exactly?”

“Over two centuries.”

“Woah.”

“That’s very similar to what Dean said.” Castiel chuckles, his eyes flicking over to Dean’s face, which immediately reddens.

Dean turns away and guides his horse down into the trees, glancing up at the sky, which is looking a little grey.

“Lean back a bit, Cas, when going downhill.” He calls back. “It makes things easier for your horse.”

“Okay.” Castiel nods. “Thank you.”

“You’re doing great for your first time, by the way.” Dean smiles, but drops the expression when he realises Sammy has noticed him.

“Thank you, Dean.” Cas beams, dipping his head to avoid a low-hanging branch. “Now I’m getting used to it, I feel much more confident, I think.”

“That’s good.” Dean nods, making sure he doesn’t look at Sam’s face. “If you want, I can teach you to trot and canter, too.” 

“Can we do that, now?” Castiel asks, and Dean laughs and shakes his head.

“No, sorry.” He chuckles. “That’d be a little risky in the woods, for a beginner—and seeing as this is your very first time, we should probably take things one step at a time, you know?”

“I understand.” Cas nods.

“But if I take you riding every day this week, you might be able to by the end of it.” Dean smiles. “You’re doing great for your first time, like I said, so maybe even sooner than that.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel beams, and Dean can’t do anything but return the look. “Shouldn’t you be looking ahead of you a little more?” He asks, frowning.

“No, it’s alright—Impala knows what’s she’s doing, so I only have to look out for any branches I might bump into.” Dean emphasises this point by brushing a few smaller ones out of his way.

“What do you think they’re discussing, right now?” Sam asks, and Dean turns back to him and frowns.

“Who do you mean?”

“Father—and all his advisors—and Michael and the other Angels.”

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugs. “They’re probably going over a bunch of boring details for shit that won’t even end up happening, anyway.”

“That’s politics, Dean.” Castiel laughs.

“Yes, and I want no part in it.”

“You’re going to be King, one day.” Sam points out.

“I’ll just keep you as my number one to go over all that boring shit for me, then.”

“What if I refuse?” Sammy grins.

“You won’t refuse, you’re my brother. And anyway, I’ll be King. You’ll  _ have _ to do what I say.”

“Or what?” Dean’s brother laughs.

“Or I’ll have you locked up, and I’ll throw away the key.” Dean winks, and Sam only laughs more.

“You wouldn’t lock up your own brother.”

“Then I’ll send you to bed early.” Dean grins.

“Without any supper?”

“Depends,” Dean laughs.

“On what?”

“How badly you’ve misbehaved.” Dean grins still more, and Sammy laughs and rolls his eyes.

“You aren’t being serious, are you?” Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows as he looks inbetween Dean and his brother.

“No, Cas.” Dean laughs. The jades and emeralds of the forest roll lazily by them. “We’re not. But it’s a pretty good idea, if you ask me.” He grins at his brother, who just giggles and looks away, muted sunlight splashing across his features as the sun flits in and out of clouds. “Don’t you get much time to joke about with your siblings?”

“Not really.” Cas shakes his head. “Gabriel, who is probably the one of us with the biggest sense of humour, likes to annoy me more than anything else—”

“I know the feeling.” Sam replies, shaking his head, and Dean scowls over to him.

“—And although Anna can be funny, too, I’m not given too many opportunities to speak to her, because she has her own Kingdom to rule over.”

“Do you ever go over to see her?” Dean asks.

“Occasionally.” Castiel nods.

“What’s her Kingdom like?”

“The Palace in the capital is much smaller than Evadne’s—although it’s a very beautiful. The Kingdom is partially surrounded by desert it’s the southmost of all the Angelic territories, so it’s very warm.”

“I thought the rivers that feed into the Great Sea came from the mountains where the Angels live?”

“Yes, they do.” Castiel nods.

“So do some of the rivers cut through the desert surrounding Tyrzah?” Dean asks.

“Only around the edge of the desert.” Castiel explains. “The desert doesn’t surround that Kingdom completely, you see.”

“How big is it?” Dean asks. “The desert, that is.”

“It stretches out behind the mountains where the Angels in Tyrzah live, to the edge of the sea.”

“And what lies beyond your mountains?”

“Aside from the desert on Tyrzah’s side, I don’t k

now. Theia lies next to Hera and the sea, beyond Evadne is ice and rock. Few have ventured there, and even fewer have gone particularly far.”

“Wow.”

“I want to explore it.” Sammy states. “I want to explore it all.”

“And what do you hope to find?” Castiel asks, smiling warmly at Dean’s brother. Dean bites his lip and looks down. It’s hardly a surprise that Castiel should come to prefer Sam to Dean; Sam is softer and friendlier and more predictable. It doesn't make it hurt any less.

“I don’t know.” Sam shrugs. “Something new. What do you think would be there? Do you think there would be  _ anything  _ there?”

“There’s always something, Samuel.” Cas smiles.

“But  _ what?” _

“Maybe more forest?” Castiel suggests. “To the north, probably realms and realms of ice, and little else. Maybe stretches of jungle, beyond the desert to the south and east. Maybe another sea. I’ve heard some say that the whole world is balanced on top of a waterfall, which is carried by a great lion through the sky, the water cascading off his back. Perhaps if you went to the edge of the world you would see water tumbling down his fur and into the abyss.” Castiel considers this a moment, then laughs softly. “Though I’m not sure if I believe that.”

“Do you think there are more people?” Sam asks. “More Humans or Angels or Demons?”

“Probably.” Castiel nods. “Almost inevitably.”

“That’s a scary thought.” Dean admits.

“It is,” Castiel agrees. “But it would be a little self-centred to assume that we were all that’s here.”

“Yeah, but it’s still creepy. Do you think all Demons are evil?” Sam turns to Castiel.

“Do you think Demons would ask the same thing about you?” Castiel asks, and Sam looks a little taken aback, at that.

“But—”

“Maybe to Demons we’re just as bad as they are, to us.”

“But we haven’t done  _ anything _ to them.”

“You’ve been at war with them for well over ten years. For the better part of fifteen, in fact. And think about how long the rivalry has been running for—perhaps things have just escalated further and further.”

“So you think one day Demons and Humans—and Angels—will live in peace, together?”

“Perhaps,” Castiel muses. “I mean, I certainly hope so. Don’t you?”

“I guess.” Sammy nods.

“I don’t.” Dean frowns.

“What makes you say that?”

“They killed our  _ mother _ .”

“And in your war against them, you’ve probably killed a lot of mothers, too.”

Dean tries not to glower at Castiel, but it’s difficult, because he hates how right Castiel is right now. The last time they had this kind of discussion, Dean ended up yelling at Castiel. He doesn’t want to do that again.

“But they started it.” Dean mumbles, and he bites down on the urge to flip Castiel off when he sees the Angel smirking at how childish Dean sounds.

“Maybe it’s time someone ended it.”

“If Michael says any of this to father, he’ll totally flip out.” Sammy laughs.

“Your father shares many of the opinions of Dean, then?” Castiel asks, frowning slightly.

“John practically embedded them into Dean’s skull.”

“You don’t question any of what he’s told you?” Castiel asks, turning to Dean.

Dean can’t help but feel marginalised.

It stabs something bitter and angry and hurt through his heart.

“You can both fuck off.” Dean scowls. “Sammy, you can’t remember that night they attacked, which I can forgive, but you have  _ no idea  _ what it was like, what it was like losing our mother—and Cas—you weren’t fucking  _ there,  _ so don’t you  _ dare  _ go assuming shit.” Castiel looks taken aback and put out by Dean’s words, but Dean doesn’t even want to apologise. “You don’t understand. You’ll  _ never  _ understand it; you couldn’t possibly. Fuck off. Both of you.”

“Dean—”

Dean kicks Impala into a canter, then into a gallop. He doesn’t look back.

When he’s stopped at his and Sam’s usual resting point, to allow Impala a bit of a break, his head feels a lot cooler. He runs a hand through his hair and looks up, unable to see the sky above his head—the leaves from the trees above him keep it out of sight and sunlight filters gently, shyly through them, green mingling with gold. He sighs and allows his horse to graze absently at the green of some low-lying branches; which he knows he shouldn’t do, but he can’t really be bothered for anything right now, let alone disciplining Impala for taking a snack.

It’s a fairly dull and grey day, especially for what is so nearly summertime, and Dean considers the possibility of it raining, which makes him groan internally. As if he needed  _ another  _ reason to feel miserable.

He smoothes his hand over his horse’s neck a moment, listening to her deep exhaling breaths, snorted out through her nostrils as she chews the budding leaves.

“Dean?” He hears his brother call cautiously from further back. Dean sighs—he doesn’t want to turn to face Sam, and his face is beginning to heat up again; but whether this is from anger or embarrassment, Dean can’t tell.

“Sorry for pissing you off.” Sam says, pulling his horse alongside Dean’s. Dean wants to look up and see if Cas is with his brother, too, but his face is already red enough. “It wasn’t meant to hurt you or anything.”

And Dean hates how Sammy phrased that.

He doesn’t say this, because to be honest, tensions are already high enough.

“I overreacted—” He stares at the forest floor, at the leaves decomposing there, at the rich, dark soil slightly upturned by his horse’s hooves. He marks the skittering of small insects through the leaf-skeletons, breathes in deep, catching the smell of earth and horse and wet bark and focusing on that, rather than his own anger or sadness or resentment as each of these feelings press at the surface of his heart.

“But you’re right, we don’t understand—anyway, I’m going back up to the castle, now, because I thought that you and Cas might want to be alone, for a bit,” Dean doesn’t miss the smile on his brother’s face as he says that—“but Cas has said that if you don’t want to talk to him—which he understands—he can go back, too.”

“That’s fine—” Dean says, “—I mean—Cas—Cas can stay.”

“Okay.” Sam nods, and smiles at Dean, and Dean tries to pull as grateful a face to his brother as he can, because really, maybe Sammy  _ does  _ understand him after all. 

Sam turns his horse around and waves Dean goodbye, and Dean turns to see Castiel, sitting awkwardly on his horse, looking apologetically at Dean from the trees surrounding the clearing.

“Sorry,” Castiel says, anxiously, “I didn’t mean to make you angry, or anything—”

“No, I know.” Dean nods. “I’m sorry for getting offended so quickly—you must think I have a  _ seriously  _ shit temper, now.”

“No, I don’t.” Castiel smiles, shaking his head. His horse trots towards Dean’s. Dean tries not to smile too much at how close the two of them are, at this. “We crossed a line. I’ll make sure I don’t cross it in future.”

“You were right.” Dean admits.

“It was an opinion, Dean.”

“No, I know—but I care too much of what my father thinks of me; so I don’t question any of the stuff he tells me, I just take it as fact. That’s not a good thing.”

“It’s not a bad thing to admire your father, you know.”

“But it’s not just admiring him—and I don’t even know if I admire him, at all—all I  _ do  _ know is that I don’t want to be the kind of King he is.”

Castiel gives Dean a soft, slow look, which Dean finds a slightly odd contradiction considering the intensity of the Angel’s eyes.

“And what will you do differently?” He asks.

“I don’t know.” Dean admits, sighing. “I won’t be so caught up on revenge. I won’t forget about the family I still  _ have,  _ you know? And if I ever have kids, I won’t ever make them worry that they’re inadequate.”

“You fear that you’re inadequate?” Castiel asks, his face lining with concern. Dean looks down.

He doesn’t fear, he  _ knows. _

Cas’s horse stops right next to Dean’s and Dean feels a hand curl around his shoulder. It’s warm and Dean wants to lean into the touch, and instead he closes his eyes at it and hopes that it will be enough.

“Never,” Castiel says softly, “never believe that.”

Dean can’t look up, and Cas’s hand squeezes at his shoulder again.

“Never.” Cas repeats gently, and this time Dean does look up, and he is forced to swallow hard when his eyes meet with Castiel’s, and he simultaneously curses and thanks their horses from stopping Dean from moving any closer; because if Dean  _ could  _ move any closer, he’d probably be trying to kiss Castiel right now.

And the idea of kissing Cas is something that makes Dean’s head pound and his heart forget to.

Dean’s eyes flit down to Cas’s lips, nonetheless.

“Is it true that Angels have magic?” He asks, almost without thinking.

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards.

“I’m sure that  _ you  _ would call it magic, yes, but we don’t really consider it as much.”

“By ‘you’, you mean Humans, right?”

“Yes,” Castiel nods. “Not just you in particular.”

“My mother said that it was wrong to call it magic, too.”

“Did she, now?” Castiel smiles softly. “And do you know why she said that?”

“I was always going to ask, when I was older—because I didn’t understand, at the time.” Dean shrugs. “But now I am older, and she’s gone…”

“Oh,” Castiel’s smile has fallen, and now he is looking at Dean with very sad eyes indeed. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Dean tries to shrug off, but again, it’s difficult. “I just—I guess I’ll never know now.” He tries to laugh, but something splinters, raw, inside of him, and his laugh breaks off, forced and unnatural. Castiel’s eyes soften, and the hand that was gripping Dean’s shoulder slides down to slip itself between Dean’s fingers.

And the touch is the most comforting thing Dean knows.

“Angels do not believe that our gifts are magic, because of what we believe about the world and how it was when the earth was first formed. Have you heard about Angel religion, Dean?” He asks, and Dean realises that he has been staring at the hand wrapped gently around his own.

“I can’t remember anything—” His voice breaks off again, and he feels Castiel’s hand squeeze his fingers, softly.

“In the beginning of time, Abra, the Mother of all things, formed the earth. She molded the mountains out of rock and stone; let them rise from the face of the earth only to fall short of touching their skies. She traced the valleys between with her fingertips so that she might create deeper cracks between them; she dug her hands into the earth and from their hollows sprouted trees and forests and lakes; and then she smiled; and created the Angels, to live atop of all these mountains. All was peaceful, at least for a time. After this, she created the Demons, for the Angels to watch over. The Angels dwelt high up, close to her, while the Demons lived far below, in slopes and canyons a great many miles from where the mountains stood. The fire in their blood heated the earth below and brought warmth to the world.

“To aid the Angels in their protection, Abra gave them wings, so that they could travel the thousands upon thousands of leagues between their home and that of the Demons in only the blink of an eye. And though the Angels tried to do as Abra had instructed, the Demons were jealous of the power wielded by the Angels, because of their wings; because of how close they lived to God herself—and they planned to seek revenge on the Angels for not sharing their home, or their power.

“When Abra saw this, she became very sad, and very angry. She banished the Demons from the land inbetween their own and that of the Angels—the land you Humans live in, now. She created a new race for the Angels to watch over—Humanity. And to aid them in this, she gave each Angel gifts of his or her own. Some Angels are able to manipulate fire, others water; we can heal, we can shake the ground we tread on, we can destroy Demons with no more than a touch. And Abra’s rage with the Demons dried up the ground behind the mountains of Tyrzah, and dried up the Demon’s own new land in the desert across the sea, so that it was barren and lifeless. 

“And Abra’s sorrow at her lost children caused her to weep, and the tears fell heavy in the mountains, and streams and rivers formed, and accumulated, and in Abra’s mercy, they forged the Cerydien sea in between the Human territory and the Demons.

“And though this was meant to protect the Humans, too, it also gave life back to the barren Demon lands—although the heat is still blistering, there, life is at least maintainable. And although she was still angry with the Demons, Abra gave them powers and gifts too, in an attempt to appease them into contentment. That is why Demons can appear to be bodies of smoke, at times; why this smoke forms across the entirety of their eyes when their bodies are not smoke, why they are strong, why they are cunning. It is all because of Abra’s kindness. 

“And all that is why it is the Angel’s responsibility to care for Humanity, why we take it upon ourselves. It is also why we have wings, and why we—”

“Have powers.” Dean finishes, nodding his head, because he thinks he finally understands.

“They are gifts.” Castiel smiles.

“That’s really different to our story of how things happened.” Dean laughs.

“Oh?” Castiel asks, his lips twitching upwards in amusement. “And what do Humans believe?”

“We—well, Herans, that is, believe that Althalia was formed—by a  _ He _ —and that Angels and Demons were the first around. There’s no saying which came first, but I suppose it’s always implied that it was the Angels… And Angels fought against the Demons for years, keeping them back in their own lands, before they noticed movement below their mountains. And they came down, cautiously, to witness the birth of Humanity. My mother said that the first Humans of Eofor were born of the forest and of the water. And, deciding to guide it themselves, the Angels placed the Cerydien sea between the two nations—the Demons and the Humans. And as Humanity spread, Angels took more and more of an espial role in all of their affairs, scared of how close the Humans would become to their sworn enemies—the Demons. 

“And when the Kingdom of Dione was forged out of chalk and magic, all their worst fears were confirmed, and the Angels returned to their mountains, only to visit on occasion, but mainly to watch, to guide, and to protect, from the security of their homes.”

“That’s interesting.” Castiel muses, nodding slowly.

“I think I prefer your version.” Dean laughs.

“Why is that?” Castiel asks, his eyes sparking with a warmth that has Dean swallowing hard as he stares at the Angel, and as the Angel regards him slowly back.

_ Because it was you who said it,  _ Dean wants to reply, but he knows better—except with the look Castiel is giving him now, the amusement and affection twitching at his lips, Dean realises that maybe—

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” He blurts out, his ears reddening, but Castiel laughs and looks down, and Dean feels the Angel squeeze his hand again.

“You’re very funny, Dean Winchester.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, you ought to hate me, for one thing.”

“I could never.” Dean smiles. “Never ever.”

“And I don’t know if you’ve realised this—but I’m not usually one to smile—or laugh.”

“But you’ve smiled loads when  _ I’ve _ been talking to you—” Dean breaks off, and  _ oh,  _ Dean thinks, and he probably says this out loud, too, because Castiel chuckles again, and Dean doesn’t want to think about how much warm affection is held in Castiel’s eyes when he looks at Dean, because if Dean thinks about that, he’ll start thinking about how much he likes it.

“Exactly,” Castiel smiles, and Dean’s head feels like it’s collapsing in on itself at the look. “My time with you has made me very happy.”

And Dean beams at that, because it’s  _ almost  _ the perfect sentence, and he can just imagine that it  _ was,  _ but then he hears Castiel chuckle again, and the fingers wrapped around his own give a soft squeeze.

_ “You  _ make me very happy.” The Angel adds, and Dean can barely look up at the Angel, but he does, and all the world seems a little too short of oxygen.

Eventually, Dean has to look down, again.

“Do you want to go back now?” Castiel asks gently. Dean’s eyes flick back up to meet with Castiel’s.

“Yeah, okay.” He nods. There is a short pause, where Dean thinks that he is just staring at Castiel, before he snaps out of his daze, and tugs at the reigns of his horse. “It’s this way.” He says quickly, his face heating to a horrifying temperature.

“Thank you for taking me riding, Dean.” Cas smiles as Dean leads them out of the clearing, back in the direction of the castle.

“That’s alright,” Dean blushes. “You’re really good at it, anyway.”

“I was a little nervous to begin with.” Cas admits, laughing.

“I could tell,” Dean’s lips twitch upwards. “But that’s understandable. I’d be if I hadn’t ridden before and tried now.”

“This is a very good horse.” Castiel says affectionately, patting his horse’s shoulder.

“Shadow? Yeah, he’s a good one.” Dean smiles. “You like him?”

“Yes.” Cas nods.

“We could keep him for you, you know—in between your visits to Hera—if there are going to be very many of them—so you could ride him whenever you come here. Riding is easier when you know your horse well, anyway.”

“That would be very kind of you, Dean,” Castiel smiles, “But please don’t feel obliged to—”

“No, it’s fine.” Dean shakes his head quickly. “It’s not an  _ obligation— _ at least, not like that.What I mean is… You’re a friend.” He beams—and he’s tempted to say something more than this, but he thanks whatever filter he has left between his brain and his mouth for stopping him from doing so.

“That’s very kind.” Castiel repeats—Dean has to duck his head;  _ why the fuck  _ does he have to be such a fool around the Angel?

“I’m—uh—I’m going to have to go to training a while after we get back, so what will you want to do in that time? You could feel free to join me, if you want.”

“I may do that, yes.” The Angel nods thoughtfully. “But could you take me to the library, before that? I believe you mentioned the castle having one, yesterday?”

“Yeah, I did. I can take you there when we get back.”

“Thank you.” The Angel smiles. “And after a while, I may join you for your training.”

“I might just beat you if we duel, you know.” Dean grins, winking at Cas.

“I suppose we’ll just have to wait to find out.”

“Well the thing is, it’s just simple arithmetic.” Dean laughs, and Cas raises his eyebrows at him. “I train every day; you only train, what—three times a week?”

“Quality, not quantity, Dean.” Castiel reminds.

“It hardly matters how witty your responses are,” Dean smirks. “We’ll  _ see _ how good your brother is at training you up, soon enough. There’s more to combat than quips.”

Castiel laughs and shakes his head.

“And there’s more to life than being good at fighting, you know.”

“Sure there is,” Dean winks. “Tell me what it is when you figure it out.”

Cas rolls his eyes.

“I hope your sword is as sharp as your tongue.”

Dean bursts out laughing.

“And I hope for my own protection that yours is as dull as you are witty.”

Castiel chuckles, seeming very pleased with the compliment. Dean can’t help but beam. He has to look away from the Angel for a little while, choosing to watch his surroundings instead of the Angel’s expression.

“Hey, Cas, what do you do for fun, when you’re at home?” Dean asks, breaking the brief, though comfortable silence. “Aside from read.”

“There’s not much else, really.” Cas shrugs. “I sit outside a lot. I like the quiet of the outdoors, I find it very soothing.” Dean nods at this, because he understands better than most, he’s sure. “I go on walks. Sometimes I’ll have company—occasionally in the form of my brother, Michael, or another one of my siblings, if they are visiting—but otherwise, which is most of the time, I will be in solitude.”

“That sounds kind of lonely. And boring.”

“It is a little.” Castiel admits. “But it can’t be helped, really. And I have Samandriel—a Malakim—” Dean frowns questioningly, because he can’t remember what that means, if Castiel has ever told him; much as he likes listening to Cas speak in Enochian. “—A servant.” Castiel explains, and Dean nods. “He’s roughly my age, and good company. But he usually has to carry out his tasks for most of the day, so even time with him can be stretched.”

“I don’t know what I’d do with all that time.”

“I have lessons, too.” Castiel shrugs. “They take up a lot of my time.”

“What do you learn?”

“Probably the same kinds of things as you.” Cas laughs.

“Okay, so you learn history?”

“Yes,” Castiel confirms.

“What else?”

“Literacy skills—in both Enochian and the languages of Humans. And, obviously, I learn how to  _ speak _ your languages, and not simply read them.”

“Do you learn math and the elements, too?” Dean asks.

“Yes.” Castiel nods.

“Do you have a tutor or something?”

“I do,” Cas confirms. “What about you?”

“I do, as well.” Dean nods. “The old man is  _ seriously  _ boring, though.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t try to be.” Castiel laughs.

“But that doesn’t mean he isn’t. It’s a wonder I don’t fall asleep, half the time.”

Castiel chuckles and shakes his head.

“Is Sam taught by the same tutor as you?” He asks.

“No, he has one of his own.” Dean explains.

“Oh, okay.” Castiel muses.

“Sam’s a bit of a drip.” Dean laughs.

“How so?”

“He’s just really enthusiastic over his studies, all the time. He loves learning. The boy is seriously smart.”

“I’m sure you are, too.”

“Not really.” Dean shakes his head. “But Sammy is a  _ genius _ .”

“He’s very nice.” Castiel says absently, and Dean feels jealous all over again, and he frowns over to the Angel.

“What makes you say that?” He asks, trying not to sound too defensive.

“He’s very friendly.” Castiel shrugs nonchalantly. “And very kind. You must love him very much.”

“I do.” Dean nods.

Castiel glances at Dean and smiles.

“He loves you very much, too. I don’t blame him.” 

Dean goes bright red.

“What makes you say that?” He asks, and he tries not to stammer over his words, but it’s agonizingly difficult.

“Well, considering how much you care for him, I’m sure it would be very hard for him  _ not to.  _ Also, he said as much.”

“Really?” Dean grins.

“Yes, but you were out of earshot. I think he would rather that I hadn’t repeated that.”

Dean laughs.

“Yes, probably. Don’t worry though, I won’t tell him you told me so.”

“Humans are very funny.” Castiel smiles, although it’s kind of affectionate, more than anything else.

“How so?” Dean asks.

“Whilst sometimes you are so reluctant to tell someone how you feel about them, others, you can’t seem to say it enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“As with you and your brother. You both love each other, and you show it, but you can’t say it.”

“Yeah, Cas, that’s because it’s embarrassing.”

“But then in all your literature, it’s filled with whole  _ monologues  _ of confessions of love. Pages and pages of it.”

“That doesn’t really happen though.”

“Humans don’t fall in love?”

“No, not that—we just don’t say that stuff in real life.”

“But it’s so beautiful.” Castiel frowns. “Why ever not?”

“It’s awkward to just  _ say  _ things like that.” Dean laughs. “And getting rejected is scary. And saying how you really feel, when you feel that intensely, to someone who then rejects you, is even worse.”

“So you don’t write each other love poems?”

“No.” Dean snorts. “Well, that’s not exactly true, some of us do. But mostly that stuff is seen as kind of sappy.”

“Sappy?”

“It’s a little bit too honeyed, you know? Too sweet. Not real.”

“Maybe you just haven’t read the right poems.” Castiel replies, tone almost matter-of-fact.

“Okay, so give me a right one, now.”

Castiel pauses a moment.

“I don’t know many by heart.” He warns.

“That’s 

fine. Just try to prove me wrong.”

Dean seriously doubts that the Angel will be able to do so.

Castiel appears to think for a moment before choosing his answer. When he starts, Dean finds his breath catching in his throat; something in the Angel’s voice changes, becomes more lilting, like the Angel is singing without tune at all.

“I love the handful of the earth you are.   
Because of its meadows, vast as a planet,   
I have no other star. You are my replica   
of the multiplying universe”

Dean looks over at Castiel.

“Okay, so—”

“It’s not done yet.” Castiel frowns. Dean looks away again. 

“Your wide eyes, are the only light I know   
from extinguished constellations;   
your skin throbs like the streak   
of a meteor through rain.   
  
Your hips were that much of the moon for me;   
your deep mouth and its delights, that much sun;   
your heart, fiery with its long red rays,   
was that much ardent light, like honey in the shade.   
So I pass across your burning form, kissing   
you - compact and planetary, my dove, my globe.”

Dean looks back up at Castiel.

“Did I prove my point?” Castiel asks, and Dean spots a slight smirk on his face as the Angel speaks.

“Say another.” Dean says, before he can think to stop himself, and Castiel smiles and pauses again, as though he is considering which poem to recite, again. Dean doesn’t want to think about how he is waiting for Castiel to start with baited breath.

“This next one is very short,” Castiel says, before starting, and Dean almost snaps that he doesn’t care, but this time he manages to catch up with his mouth before it runs away from him.

“That’s fine.” He manages to shrug, attempting to look as careless as possible.

“Your skin like dawn   
Mine like musk

One paints the beginning   
of a certain end.

The other, the end of a   
sure beginning.”

Dean’s hands are holding onto Impala’s reigns, perhaps a little too tightly.

“I liked that one.” He nods. “And the last.” He says quickly.

“So I was right?” Castiel smiles.

“Say another.” Dean says, because he doesn’t want to admit defeat explicitly, but this is enough to tell Cas that yes, he was. Castiel smiles again, albeit a little smugly.

“We, unaccustomed to courage   
exiles from delight   
live coiled in shells of loneliness   
until love leaves its high holy temple   
and comes into our sight   
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives   
and in its train come ecstasies   
old memories of pleasure   
ancient histories of pain.   
Yet if we are bold,   
love strikes away the chains of fear   
from our souls

We are weaned from our timidity   
In the flush of love's light   
we dare be brave   
And suddenly we see   
that love costs all we are   
and will ever be.   
Yet it is only love   
which sets us free”

“What’s that one called?” Dean asks, when Cas is finished.

“Touched by an Angel.” Cas says, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world; but Dean doesn’t think his face has ever felt so hot. 

“And those poems were by a Human?”

“Of course. The last two were written by the same poet.” 

“Which Kingdom were they from?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel admits. “Although probably not this one.”

“And why do you like this stuff so much, Cas?”

“I suppose it’s because I must be rather sappy.”

“You’re not—” Dean cuts himself short when he notices the smile on Cas’s face. “Why are other Angels so withdrawn, compared to you? And why are you not?”

“It’s our culture to be so. And I don’t know why I struggle so much with containing my emotions. I always have.”

“So you like Human literature because it’s so open?”

“Yes.” Castiel nods. “It’s raw and brutal and personal to a degree that Angelic writing—at least, much of it—simply cannot compare to, and I think I love it an awful lot.”

Dean has to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying how wonderful he finds Castiel.

“How much do you have, in Evadne?”

“A lot, although I expect I’ll run out at some point. I spend most of my time reading, after all.”

“I could send you some books, if you want.”

“I’d like that a lot.” Castiel smiles.

“We could write to each other in between visits, too,” Dean suggests, “because… well, it sounds like you get kind of lonely.”

“I’d like that, too.” Castiel’s eyes crinkle at their corners. Dean’s stomach turns backflips in response.

“Good. Excellent.” He nods, blushing as they arrive back at the stables. Dean dismounts Impala and helps Castiel down—more instructing him of how to do it than anything else—and the two of them return the horses to their stables. Dean is still grinning by the time he shows Castiel to the library, which is a considerably long walk from the horses.

He likes how Cas’s face lights up when they enter the building.

“All of this is written by Humans?” He asks, gesturing to the many, many shelves of books surrounding him.

“Yes,” Dean nods, laughing. “What do you want to read?”

“Where is the fiction section?” Castiel asks, and Dean’s heart swells uncontrollably at the look on Cas’s face—something beyond happiness pulses through Dean at the knowledge that he is the one who made this joyful expression form on Cas’s features.

“Here,” Dean leads him past the many shelves on Human history and geography, on language and religion, and turns the corner. “This entire section.”

“Wow,” Castiel says, as though all intelligent speech has been knocked out of him. And then, rather dumbly, “I think I’d better get started.”

Dean laughs and shakes his head as Castiel paws over several books before picking up the ones he finds most appealing.

“Can I get you a chair, or anything?” He asks, but Castiel smiles happily and shakes his head.

“I’ll sit on the floor in a quiet corner.” He tells Dean. “That’s what I usually do.”

“Okay,” Dean can’t seem to stop smiling. “Well, I’ve got to go now, but I’ll see you soon, I hope?” He asks, and his face prickles with heat at how desperate he sounds.

“Yes,” Castiel nods distantly. “I expect you will.” He looks up at Dean and smiles, before picking out an appropriate corner and seating himself there. Dean steals another glance in Castiel’s direction before leaving.

He notes the line drawn up between Cas’s eyebrows as he reads, and the way he bites his lip softly, and the way he crosses his legs underneath him on the floor, seated like a child; the way his eyes look so much more focussed and intense when he is reading. Dean swears—he  _ swears  _ that he is not growing so very attached to the Angel. But looking at him now, and thinking of how they were together in the courtyard, last night—how he  _ felt,  _ and continues to feel; Dean is beginning to think that there’s no point in him lying to himself any more.

On his way out onto the training grounds, Dean literally bumps into his father, which he finds slightly odd. John should be in the courts, surely? Or the Main Hall?

“Dean,” His father says, with some kind of formal, sombre urgency, and Dean frowns at the tone.

“Shouldn’t you be discussing things with—”

“I saw you coming back from your ride with Prince Castiel.”

“Okay,” Dean frowns again. “What—”

“I know you’re to be married to the boy, Dean, but—”

“Castiel isn’t a boy.” Dean protests firmly, but his father snorts.

“What, you think he’s a  _ man?”  _ He laughs, and Dean scowls. “He’s more of one than you, certainly, but you’re both children, nonetheless.”

“So why the  _ fuck _ are you trying to marry us?” Dean glowers at his father, whose sneer is instantly replaced with a heavy, firm look.

“Don’t speak to me that way, Dean.”

Dean looks down.

“I can see that you like him.” John says. Dean doesn’t recognise the tone he take son; it’s new and alien—but he knows he doesn’t like it. 

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Well, actually—”

“You want us to get  _ married,  _ father.”

“And he’s an Angel.”

“That’s kind of the point, I thought?”

“You need to get your head out of the clouds, and remind yourself whose side you’re on.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“The fairy tales aren’t true.”

“What, the ones saying that Angels have wings? Because from what I can see, they kind of  _ do _ .”

“Dean—” John’s voice has taken a warning tone, but Dean doesn’t care now, he’s angry; Dean’s father never gives Dean the time of day unless it’s to reprimand him or remind him of his duties, and Cas was right—Dean  _ does  _ need to be able to think for himself.

“And to be honest, from what I’ve seen and heard of them so far, they do a better job of ruling their Kingdoms than most Humans I know.”

“What the fuck is  _ that _ supposed to mean?” John hisses, eyes turning dark.

“That Angels aren’t bad! And you persuaded me that they were for so many years! You  _ lied  _ to me!”

“You’re too much like Mary.” John growls. “She was wrong, you know, Dean—she had her head caught up in the clouds, too—and I loved her, granted—but she was wrong. And it rubbed off on you.”

_ “Everything  _ you’ve done in the Demon war has been because of my mother—”

“I’m not saying I don’t miss her.” Dean’s father frowns. He rubs his face with the palm of his hand, just as he does every time he’s growing weary and frustrated of conversation with Dean. “—I wish you had both been as disenchanted with them as I always was. I was  _ always _ disillusioned with those fairy tales. And it would make things a whole lot easier if you were, too.”

Dean has grown tired.

“What’s the point of all of this—?” He asks wearily.

“They’re not our friends, Dean.”

“I thought the purpose of their visit—”

“Was to make them allies. Allies, not friends.”

This riles Dean up again.

“So I’m meant to be ‘allies’ with the boy you want me to be married to? Allies, and nothing else? That sounds like a  _ great  _ fucking marriage to me,” Dean snorts sarcastically, lip curling. “What are we going to do? Negotiate territories of the marriage bed? Organise trade links over dinner? Or am I going to bend over and let him fuck me in return for a garrison of soldiers?”

Fire flares behind Dean’s father’s eyes, and he raises his hand to Dean, who flinches back, furious at the fact that his eyes start burning at the threat of his father striking him.

The King sighs deeply and looks away, probably disgusted by the veil of tears clouding Dean’s vision.

“I’m asking you to remember who your family is.”

“I’m not forgetting—”

“Dean,” John growls, and Dean shrinks further down. “Don’t let me down.”

Which only makes Dean hang his head.

He’s already letting his father down.

“Yes, father.” He nods. He doesn’t look back up.

“Thank you.” John says shortly, before turning back around and leaving. Dean doesn’t lift his head back up. It suddenly feels far too heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter ought to be up on the 26th, maybe before then, but I can't promise anything (sorry!) I've got a lot of uni application stuff going on, but that'll be over by this week :) 
> 
> Also sorry to end the chapter on the downer of Dean getting berated by his dad, I promise you next chapter you'll get lots and LOTS of lovely fluff and Dean and Cas both being their wonderful dorky selves.
> 
> Please leave comments, I love reading what you think/have to say!


	7. Dean Yields

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KISS KISS KISS KISS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE fucking thanks to Viplaja for helping me out with this chapter! It probably wouldn't have even got completed if I hadn't had someone to talk it all through with (and thanks for coping with my incredibly incoherent thoughts/messages as I attempted to explain everything). You're the best ever!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this chapter. It has like, a buttload of fluff in it, and (as you've probably guessed by the chapter summary) DEAN AND CAS'S FIRST KISS! Fuck, did I love writing this one.

**“Books break the shackles of time.”**

**\- Carl Sagan, Cosmos**

  
Castiel looks above him to the great domed roof of the library, taking in his refreshingly peaceful surroundings. The roof of this room is made of glass—a glass so clear it appears to be almost composed of cut crystal, with the metal joining each panel together melded in such a way that it appears that iron plants and ivies are winding their ways across the surface of the clear ceiling. The sunlight pouring through it seems to set the glass on fire with a white, pure kind of light that shimmers down in fractured lines onto the hundreds of shelves and thousands of books below it. Nothing else from the outside world enters this room, only the light, and there is an eerie, pure kind of stillness here. Not even the wind or the birdsong outside can be heard.

The shape of the enormous room reminds him largely of the library in his own home; which also has a domed roof and circular walls. He glances to his left, to where a thin, spiral staircase made of a wiry, black metal leads up to another floor of books. He smiles. There is so much knowledge in this room. There are rows and rows of shelves, all a dark brown, ruddy kind of wood he doesn’t recognise; the air in here is different to the air in the rest of Hera, which is heavy and warm and unpleasant. This place smells of parchment and woodsmoke, all with an overture of the tang of iron and the smell of wax and hide rising up from beneath these.

Castiel thinks that of all the rooms in the castle of Hera, this is the most beautiful.

It’s hardly saying much, considering how ugly much of the architecture of the castle appears, at least in comparison with the ineffable beauty of Castiel’s own home; but this room seems to be something of an honest exception to the rule of hard, unforgiving lines and grey stone and easily defendable parapets that the rest of Castle Hera seems to follow.

Above him, on the second floor, which only stretches around the edges of the room and has the bookcases built into its walls, lie the far older and more valuable books—at least, according to a passing servant.

Castiel doesn’t know how long he has been sat here reading; although he guesses a few hours. The sun, which upon his entry had been situated roughly directly above the glass dome, has now slipped out of view, if Castiel looks up.

Castiel knows he should be going to see Dean soon, if not immediately; but he is so comfortable where he sits—and he has never had so many books, written on topics he actually finds _appealing,_ at his disposal.

He wishes that Dean were here, too—the thought of having Dean sat next to him as the two of them read in silence is of infinite appeal to Castiel, it sets something warm and glowing and contented into his heart; and he isn’t quite sure why that is. He likes the thought of him and Dean sat shoulder to shoulder, close enough that they are actually _touching,_ reading and occasionally talking in the quiet, comfortable room. He likes the thought of reading more poetry to Dean, watching the distant look that this action fixes in Dean’s eye, telling the Human about all his favourite authors.

Or maybe Dean could read to Castiel.

Castiel doesn’t know how much Dean would actually like it; but he is sure that if he suggested the right book to Dean, the Human would greatly enjoy himself while reading. And Castiel likes the sound of Dean’s voice… He is certain he’d like it even more if Dean were reading as pretty words as the ones written by all these Humans, with nobody but Castiel as his audience in the perfect stillness of the library.

Very few people have passed through here as far as Castiel can see, and the only regular attendee to the room seems to be a rather wizened, elderly man; who orders the books and scrolls appropriately, and otherwise remains in his seat at the corner of the room, poring over a story of his own. His expression seems to be drawn towards the centre of his face, features receding toward his nose in a constantly perplexed, engrossed expression, a pair of eyeglasses balanced precariously on his nose, silver hair tumbling in front of his eyes.

Occasionally a woman around his age will enter too, and the pair will nod to each other and exchange a few short, hushed words. The man will smile at the lady’s back when she turns around and he knows she can’t see. Castiel’s lips are twitched upwards, his heart warmed by the sight. He pities Angels for believing love is a trait which should be stifled and stamped down upon as much as possible. How much his own people are missing out on, he muses.

Eventually drawn by the pang of desire to be with Dean again, Castiel makes his way to leave. He smiles at the old librarian—Castiel assumes that this is his profession—who returns the look and bows his head back.

Asking for instruction to Dean’s training grounds from a servant wearing slightly scuffed boots and a crumpled shirt, Castiel is shown down several corridors, and then out into a courtyard, where he frowns at the clouded sky over his head—it seems far too overcast for what is so nearly summertime. In the distraction of taking in his surroundings, the servant has left Castiel; who vaguely remembers the skinny, scruffy looking man pointing him somewhere, saying something in the way of instruction, before disappearing. As it is, the Angel now finds himself utterly lost.

An archway lies ahead of him, the sun winking gold out from behind it, and beyond that, emerald gardens and lawns. Castiel decides to follow his instincts and go through here. Out ahead of him, he sees something a little like an arena, with seats rising up on five of its six sides. Castiel can just make out the entrance, as the remaining side is fenced off, for whatever reason. He assumes that this is where Dean trains, anyway, and makes his way inside through the rather bombastic arched entrance.

“Hello, Cas,” Dean grins as soon as he spots the Angel approaching. It warms something inside of Castiel to know that his presence has provoked such an unabashed, happy expression on the Human’s face.  “Thank you for today, you can leave us, now.” Dean smiles and nods to the battle-scarred man Castiel assumes to be his instructor, who bows to Dean and sheaths his sword, nodding politely at Castiel before placing his weapons back on the rack.

“My Lord,” The trainer leaves the arena, Dean tips a smile to him as he exits.

The jade-eyed Human wears minimal amour; Castiel assumes it is because he has only been training and not is in any actual combat—Dean is not wearing a helmet, nor is he wearing a breastplate, although he does don a boiled leather shirt, along with a gardbrace and pauldron on one arm, while the other is left free, probably for ease of mobility.

“You still want to test your skills out on me?” Dean winks, and Castiel thinks he feels his face flush. “It’s okay if you’ve chickened out—I won’t judge you.”

“In which form of combat?” Castiel asks, ignoring Dean’s mockery of him.

“Hand,” Dean grins. “Or sword. You decide.”

“Aren’t there any other options?”

“Why, Cas, are you scared?” Dean asks, and there is another wink directed at Castiel as Dean speaks. Castiel observes quietly that Dean is far more confident when on the battlefield.

“There’s more to combat than fighting with swords.” Castiel states, attempting to keep his tone as flat as possible—which is difficult considering the rising temperature of his blood. He toes the gritty, sandy ground of the arena beneath his feet, very conscious of the fact that Dean is attempting to goad him, but also of the fact that the leer the Human wears, scrawled across his face, makes something in Castiel’s gut tie itself into tight, unforgiving knots.

“Which is why I offered hand combat, too.” Dean grins. Castiel presses his lips together, face hot in spite of the cool breeze that swirls down through the arena, tongues of wind ruffling at his hair. “We can fight with no weapons at all, if you want.”

“What about archery?”

“That stuff’s for kids.”

“It wins a lot of battles, you know.”

Dean rolls his eyes. Castiel licks his lips and ignores the way that Dean’s skin, glittering with a light sweat, is also flushed in an almost picturesque manner from his day’s no doubt taxing day of training.

“Then what about jousting?” Castiel asks.

“Cas, you can barely ride, yet, so I’m pretty sure that jousting is out of the question for the time being,” Dean barely conceales his snort as he speaks, mirth dancing in the ever-present fire behind his pure, jade eyes.

“So those two forms of fighting are the only that you’re offering?”

“I’ve said you can back out, if you’re too scared.” Dean smirks, and Castiel scowls at him, which only makes Dean leer _more_.

“Arrogance doesn’t look good on you, Dean.” He quips, certain his nostrils are flaring.

“Bullshit,” Dean snorts, “everything looks good on me.”

Castiel’s face heats, but he manages not to rise. Dean is right, of course—he’s unusually fascinating in his appearance, even sweat slick and dust-covered, as he is now.

“You know what they say about pride coming before—”

“I think you’re trying to change the subject.” Dean sneers, and with that, Castiel has had enough. He doesn’t respond well to mockery.

Instead of lashing out with a sharp tongue in response to Dean’s goading, Castiel paces over to the stands of weapons on the edge of the dusty stone arena, eyeing each of them up. He finds a sword he considers an appropriate size for him, remembering what Michael has told him about what he should look for when considering his weapons, and feels the weight of it in the palm of his hand.

It rests, both heavy and light at his fingers, a simple blade with a gold plated hilt and leather-bound grip—Castiel decides that he likes it well enough. He spins it from its handle, considering the way its body pulls at his hand, the momentum which it builds up; the speed at which it slices through the air.

“This will do me well enough.” He smiles, his smugness barely noticeable, though he knows almost for certain that Dean will pick up on it.

“You aren’t going to want any kind of armour?” Dean frowns slightly.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me, Dean;” Castiel’s lips twitch upwards. “I said: this will do me well enough.”

Dean bites his bottom lip, and, for the first time in their conversation, looks a little uneasy, which only makes Castiel feel all the _more_ smug. He’s going to enjoy this.

Dean’s frown is still twisting at his face when he pulls his sword up to stand on guard, but Castiel smirks and swings his weapon loosely at his feet, only pulling it up as Dean lunges forward, deflecting the Human’s blow; which seems to take Dean by surprise. Castiel tries not to smile _too_ much as the Human scowls again, and ducks out of the way when Dean attempts to overcut him.

“That was hardly fair, Dean,” Castiel squints slightly at his opponent, who shrugs and attempts the move again, which Castiel manages to dodge once more without any trouble. “I’m not wearing any kind of armour.”

Dean lunges again, throwing a cut toward Castiel’s chest, though he easily counters it, pushing Dean’s blade upwards and away.

“Yes, and that was by _your_ choice, not mine.” Dean reminds as he fights. “You’ve made your bed, now you’ve got to lie in it.”

“Shouldn’t we be trying to avoid injuries?”

“Take it as a compliment, Cas,” Dean pants, attempting to smirk playfully at Castiel as he aims another blow in Castiel’s direction; but the Angel parries his move, pushing Dean’s sword back, causing the Human to nearly lose his balance. “—That I think you so capable.”

“I’ll try to.” Castiel dodges Dean’s sword as it slices through the air, the blade whistling past his ear: this seems to frustrate Dean further—which makes Castiel think that the King’s son is not used to any kind of defeat.

Dean is skilled, granted, but he’s too obvious in his moves; his intentions are made too clear by his body language and expressions, there’s no nuance to his movements, no graceful edge, only brute force and speed, and Castiel is beginning to think that maybe emotions _are_ a hindrance in matters such as this, when—

The hilt of Dean’s sword is blown into Castiel’s stomach; winding him, the pommel of the blade knocking the air clean out of Castiel, and he is taken aback for a few moments, his mind drawing an utter blank—he should have known better than to get distracted; Michael has _always_ reprimanded him for this when in training—and although Dean’s move was hardly fair play, it wasn’t exactly out of the rulebook, either.

And now Castiel is gasping for air as Dean swings his sword up again, ready to point it at Castiel’s neck and force him to surrender Dean into victory; and Castiel can see the triumph in Dean’s eyes, which is infuriating enough to summon him back into action.

He slams the fold of his right wing into Dean’s body, hitting him with the blunt of his joints and slamming Dean’s frame onto the floor, where the boy lands in a flurry of dust and grit, clouding upwards. Castiel holds the point of his sword to Dean’s neck, just enough so that it is pressing lightly at his skin, holding him down, but still soft enough so as not to risk drawing any blood. Dean scowls up at Castiel, whose heart begins basking in smug warmth of his own victory.

“That wasn’t fair.” Dean glares. Castiel finds the look oddly endearing.

“It was,” Castiel contends, frowning.

“You used your wings, and I don’t have any, so it wasn’t fair.”

“You had armour, I didn’t. It was fair enough.” Castiel disagrees. His head inclines to the side as he regards Dean, red-faced, skin prickled with beads of sweat that glitter in the setting sun, brow furrowed in indignant aversion. Castiel takes this moment to catch his breath from the duel, using his free arm to mop up his own sweat, stinging at his forehead, with the sleeve of his tunic.

“No,” Dean glowers from where he is still trapped on the floor—Castiel doesn’t think it wise to lower his weapon, just yet, “it wasn’t. You _chose_ to go without armour; I never chose not to have wings. You _cheated_.”

“You winded me. That was hardly knightly of you, Dean.”

“It wasn’t the embodiment of chivalry, sure,” Dean admits, “But it wasn’t cheating, either.”

“I’d beg to differ.”

“Sure you would.” Dean snarls. “You _won.”_

“So I did.” Castiel smirks, taking on the innocent tone he has noted Gabriel to use so often when teasing others. He isn’t sure if it suits him, but it certainly seems to drive Dean even further up the wall. “I suppose you were wrong, after all. I _wasn’t_ afraid that I would lose, earlier.”

“You have your brother to train you—” Dean tries to say, but Castiel laughs and shakes his head, cutting the Human off before he can continue any further.

“And you have a trainer of your own, Dean. Don’t try to make excuses, it’s not attractive. Accept defeat.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You’ve fought in an actual war, too.” Castiel reminds. “There’s another advantage in your favour.”

“Yeah,” Dean glares, hard and unforgiving at his opponent, “they don’t fight fair in war, either.”

Castiel notes the muscle fluttering at the junction of Dean’s neck and jaw, and remarks internally that the boy prince must _really_ hate losing.

“I’m sure.”

“The soldiers from Dione don’t fight fair,” Dean states, and where is he going with this?

“Neither will Demon soldiers, if you ever face them,” Castiel points out, returning the hardness of the look Dean gives him, only lacing his own gaze with far more mirth and amusement than Dean seems able to cope with.

“And neither do Angels, apparently.”

The words are spat out, Dean’s expression seems to retreat towards his nose, which wrinkles in distaste.

“You see, Dean?” Castiel leers down at the other boy, “We’re all cheats and we’re all liars in the grand scheme of things.”

“Angels, especially, it seems” Dean glowers.

“Admit that you lost,” Is all Castiel replies with, voice mocking the Human with condescension.

“ _No_ ,” Dean refuses, still glaring up at Castiel. “You cheated.” He clenches his teeth.

“We could always have a rematch.” Castiel suggests.

“We won’t need one,” Dean mumbles, finally looking away, and Castiel feels himself frown slightly, a questioning pulse of confusion flashing through his mind and distracting him from the honeyed pleasure of victory—but then Dean’s sword is swung up and slammed against his own, knocking it out of the way, and Dean tackles Castiel to the ground, laughing in conceited triumph.

“Get off—” Castiel tries to squirm free, but Dean doesn’t budge, and his laughter only continues.

“Never,” Dean shakes his head, grinning, his legs on either side of Castiel, pinning him to the sand and dirt-covered ground. “Yield?” He asks, giggling like a child. “Do you yield?”

Castiel scowls before lunging forward again, flipping Dean onto his back—Dean resists, and the two continue grappling in this way; one flipping the other to the ground only to find themselves being pushed over and hitting the floor a moment later, sand and dust and grit caught up in hair and eyes and skin, whirling up into the air and into a cloudy furor; but Castiel eventually manages to pin Dean to the ground and keep him there.

Him being an Angel—even if he is not a fully matured one—gives him a significant physical advantage; and though he is sure that this is something Dean will complain about, it can hardly be conceived as being unfair.

“Do _you_ yield, Dean?” He pants, on top of the Human, his legs on either side of Dean’s body; trapping him—but the grin is still fixed upon Dean’s features, which Castiel finds almost _maddening_ with the amount of frustration it sends coursing through his system. “Stop smirking,” Castiel glares. Dean attempts to rise, to sit up slightly, but Castiel slams the Human’s shoulders back against the ground, dust billowing out from beneath him yet again. “You’ve lost, twice now, so _stop_ it. Stop moving—stop trying to squirm free, you’ve _really_ lost, now. Why are you laughing?” He feels his lip curl in annoyance, but Dean’s body racks with laughter from underneath him. “Stop it!” He snaps, confusion rising with the bubbling anger inside his chest as Dean’s giggles only continue. “Yield, Dean!” He nearly barks down.

 _“Make me.”_ Dean grins up at him; eyes half closed with a sly kind of smugness as he gazes up at the Angel through thick brown eyelashes.

“Stop it—!” Castiel shouts, and squints at Dean, frowning, leaning down towards the Human in frustration to shout into his face, but then Dean surges forwards again, and Castiel is expecting another form of attack, and is ready to counter it—but it doesn’t come.

Or, not in any form he was expecting.

Because Dean’s lips have met his own, they have crashed against Castiel’s.

And Castiel makes a startled sort of noise against Dean’s mouth, and his mind is storming inside his skull and yet it is like still waters; it is swirling messily and it is drawing a blank, and Dean rolls on top of Castiel again, and Castiel thinks he can feel Dean smiling against his mouth, and then Castiel rolls Dean back onto his back; and they are both laughing into the kiss, tongues probing into each other’s mouths, noses meeting awkwardly, foreheads bumping, and Castiel’s eyes are crinkling at their corners and something is swelling inside of his heart, ready to burst, and all the poets in all the world couldn’t describe how the Angel is feeling right now.

He doesn’t know what to think when they break apart. They just pant and stare at each other, entranced, for what could quite honestly be a lifetime—and then Castiel finds himself saying;

“You just kissed me.”

His eyes are wide.

“I did,” Dean’s lips play upward into an expression somehow both amused and nonplussed. “And you kissed me back.”

“I did—” Castiel admits, looking away for a moment from where he lies, on top of Dean. “—I—”

“You liked it?” Dean asks from underneath him, something infantile and unabashed in his expression. Castiel swallows around the lump in his throat and turns his head to look back down at the Human.

“I mean,” He feels far too short of breath as he speaks. “You—I—”

“You liked it?” Dean repeats, hands grazing up Castiel’s thighs. The Angel’s breath catches in his throat.

“Obviously I—” He flushes. Dean smirks. Castiel scowls at the expression. “But you liked it _more,”_ He accuses.

Dean giggles from beneath him.

“You’re kinda immature. You know that, right?”

Castiel chooses to glare down at Dean rather than let his expression turn as soft and tender as his heart feels in this moment.

“Admit you lost.”

His words are bitten out, but somehow come across more indignant and childish than anything else.

But Dean only laughs and lifts his head to press his lips against Castiel’s again, and Castiel doesn’t think that he’s ever found a moment as perfect as this one.

When Dean pulls back, he looks up at Castiel through thick eyelashes almost _obediently_ , and bows his head slightly, still staring into Castiel’s eyes as he confesses;

“You won, Castiel.” His voice is like sleep and tenderness and crackling fires and Castiel can see the dawn in the Human’s eyes. “I yield.”

And Castiel thinks Dean means in something other than just their duel.

  


* * *

 

  


They eat in the dining hall instead of the main hall for supper. Castiel ponders how much it is that prefers this room—it is only himself, Dean, and Sam dining together, with a few servants standing round the edges of the room ready to refill their goblets or bring in the next course.

It is much more intimate here—Castiel doesn’t have to worry about any of his siblings smirking at him from the corner of his eye, or Dean acting less like himself whilst in his father’s presence.

The dining hall is smaller and has a far friendlier feel than that of the main hall—and although it is, admittedly, still very large, Castiel feels far more at ease here. A huge fireplace sits at the one side of the room, though the fire lit inside it is comparatively small for the fireplace’s size—but then, Castiel supposes, it’s a fairly warm summer’s night, so there’s hardly any need for it, anyway.

“How was the rest of your ride?” Sam asks as Dean and Castiel both pull out chairs at the table where Sam is already seated.

“It was good.” Dean shrugs, although he avoids eye contact with his brother while he says this, and Castiel is slightly puzzled as to why.

“And you went to the library?” Sam asks, turning to Castiel. The Angel nods in response.

“Yes, I did.” He confirms.

“How did you find it?”

“I liked it very much.” Castiel’s lips twitch upwards as the servants set the meal on the table. “Your library is quite possibly the most beautiful room in this castle, I think.”

“Oh, it definitely is.” Sam nods. “The rest of the rooms are kind of ugly.”

“That’s not true.” Dean frowns. “The halls are nice.”

“Yeah, but I bet they’re not as nice as in _Cas’s_ home.”

Dean turns to Castiel expectantly.

“Would you say that’s true?” He asks. Castiel ducks his head.

“I don’t wish to appear rude…”

“You wouldn’t be being rude—I asked you, Cas. Anyway, I bet your castles _are_ nicer—the library is definitely the nicest room we’ve got here, but apart from that, there aren’t many others.”

“Your room is nice.” Castiel frowns. Dean stiffens as Sam straightens up, a grin spreading across his face.

“When have you been to Dean’s room?” He asks, laughter bubbling around his words, and Castiel’s face heats—he hadn’t been thinking, and now he’s clearly said too much.

“Um—” He bites his lip, looking down and then back up at Samuel, certain his face is turning a violent shade of red. “…I—”

“He and his brother came round to my room, yesterday, so Cas could get a guided tour, you ass.” Dean rolls his eyes, and Castiel relaxes somewhat.

“Right,” Sam nods, although he looks slightly unconvinced. “Anyway, Cas, what’s the library like in _your_ home?”

Castiel’s lips twitch into a small smile.

“It’s probably my favourite room there, too. It has a slightly domed roof, not unlike your library, although ours isn’t made of glass, as yours is.”

Sam nods.

“So, is it lit up by natural light, too?”

“Yes,” Castiel confirms. “It has a great deal of windows, and it is mostly painted white, and made with alabaster, so the whole room is very light.”

“It sounds beautiful.” Dean states, gazing intently at Castiel. “I’d love to see it.”

“I hope you will, one day.” Castiel returns. He doesn’t miss the pink that creeps across Dean’s face at this. “The ceiling is painted differently from the rest of the room, though.”

“How so?” Dean asks, frowning inquisitively.

“It’s very ornate,” Castiel explains. “And features portraits and images and narratives painted directly onto the ceiling itself, which is very beautiful, too.”

“It sounds it.” Dean replies, still staring fixedly at Castiel. The Angel quickly decides that he very much enjoys the fact that he has Dean’s undivided, unquestioning attention.

“Has it got multiple floors?” Sam asks.

“Like yours, it has layers of bookcases lining the walls, and you reach them with staircases—there are also several corridors _made_ of bookcases, leading off of the library—which is, itself, quite large—and these of course contain more books.”

“And you say you’re afraid you’re gonna run out of stuff to read.” Dean snorts.

“Not all of the things there interest me, Dean.” Castiel reminds. “Most of it is simply religious, philosophical, political or historical works—which, while they may be apparently captivating for my brother, are less so for me.”

“You like books written by Humans.” Dean smiles, although the emotion he is regarding Castiel with is difficult to pinpoint. Sunlight from the stained-glass windows at the head of the hall splash his face with colour and turn his jade eyes into a glittering amber.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms. “I do.”

“You don’t read _any_ books written by Angels?” Sam asks. Castiel turns back to Dean’s younger brother.

“No, I read some. But I find them to be nowhere near as gripping, nor as appealing as your novels are. Your _fiction_ stories, I feel I should mention.”

“If I had books about Angel history at my disposal, I think I’d read them all the time.” Dean says. Castiel smiles.

“I don’t doubt that you would—but they’re far less interesting for me—it feels more like one of my lessons, reading those books, than anything else.”

“Yes, but your people are _Angels.”_ Dean says, and Castiel lets out a breath of amusement at Dean’s words. “You’re all so interesting.”

“Probably a lot less interesting when you _are_ an Angel, Dean.”

“What kind of fiction do you read, Cas?” Sam asks. He picks at his food, apparently far more absorbed by Castiel than he is by his meal.

“Cas reads all sorts.” Dean grins on behalf of the Angel, straightening up to look over to Samuel as he speaks. “He likes poetry and stories and plays for the theatre.”

“Yes,” Castiel nods, something warm blanketing his insides at Dean’s words. “I do.”

“Do you have a favourite genre?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel frowns, slightly. “I like your literature written about love.”

“Romance?” Sam asks. Castiel shrugs and nods in response.

“You’re such a sap, Cas.” Dean laughs.

“You weren’t complaining when I was quoting poetry to you, earlier.” Castiel counters, and Dean blushes a deep, bright red.

“Dean puts on a façade of not caring about romance and all that stuff, but we know he’s lying.” Sam grins. “He loves it.”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean scowls, and Castiel’s lips are quirked upwards.

“What makes you think that it’s a bad thing?” He asks, and Dean turns to face him a little more, his face still very red.

“I don’t—I just—”

“Dean acts like he doesn’t believe in love, only attraction. Ellen says he’s a flirt.” Sam states, looking even more entertained at the new expression that slides across Dean’s features. Castiel thinks he recognises it as a combination of deep embarrassment mixed with a sharp frustration. “He sometimes even flirts with _servants_.”

“Sam, shut up—”

Castiel isn’t sure what to say.

“I think a lot of them are a little in love with him,” Sam snorts. “And I think Dean knows it, too. Sometimes he gets a crowd of them watching him fight in the arena, and he likes to show off and impress them whenever they’re around.”

“They wouldn’t have been impressed with Dean’s display, today,” Castiel finds himself smiling—and it feels an odd combination of triumphant and vindictive. “He lost.”

“What?” Sam grins.

“When I was duelling him, I beat him. Twice. Had there been a crowd intent on watching Dean, I’m sure they would’ve been far less impressed than usual.”

“Yeah, for a couple of reasons.” Dean mumbles, his face still scorched with colour.

“You beat Dean?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows at Castiel, something like vastly impressed disbelief ghosting across his features.

“I did.” Castiel confirms, his lips twitching upwards.

“I bet he didn’t react well to that.” Sam chuckles, and Castiel does, too.

“I don’t know,” He shrugs, glancing back at Dean, who is now staring at the floor. “I think I quite enjoyed his response.”

Dean’s face only goes redder at this, but his eyes flicker back up to Castiel’s face, and a shy, reluctant smile grazes his lips.

“I might flirt with a bunch of people, but you should know that I don’t have that response to just _anyone_ who bests me in combat.”

Sam frowns, confused.

“And anyway,” Dean shrugs, “if that’s going to be the usual outcome of us sparring, I think I’ll be _more_ than okay with losing.”

This time, Castiel’s face is the one to heat.

After the meal, Dean grabs Castiel softly by the wrist as Sam exits the Dining Hall.

“Cas—I—I wanted to say—about what Sam said at dinner—”

“What did Sam say?” Castiel asks, cocking his head to the side and frowning slightly.

“About me—about me flirting with a bunch of people—” Dean looks down, his face returning to the heated, red colour it was during the meal. “—I just—I know it sounds bad—”

“It doesn’t sound bad, Dean.” Castiel frowns. “Honestly, I had already heard that you were considered something of a charmer—”

“But I’m not going to be like that, now that—now that you’re in the equation.” Dean phrases the sentence awkwardly, and the words come slowly out of his mouth. Castiel watches as the Human winces at his own discomfort. “—I mean—I’m not gonna flirt with people, now that you and I are—” He pauses, and Castiel knows that both himself and Dean are asking themselves the same question. What _are_ the two of them? “You know?” Dean finishes, looking up at Castiel. Castiel smiles and nods.

“I understand.” He confirms. “Is there a reason you aren’t… flirty, with me?” He asks, knowing how much of an awkward question this is.

Dean blushes again.

“I guess—I’m just way more nervous around you…” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Is there a reason for that?” Castiel frowns.

“Um—” Dean’s face is still blistering red, and Castiel thinks he can see heat creeping down the Human’s neck. “I’m less confident with you—‘cause—I don’t know… It feels like you matter more, you know? Like, I could fuck it up, and I don’t _want_ to fuck it up, but I’m scared I _will…_ And so I get nervous, and then I just start talking shit—like I am now—” He cuts himself off and looks down, a small, anxious laugh tumbling out from his lips. Castiel’s hand brushes underneath Dean’s chin almost without the Angel realising it.

Dean looks up nervously, and then Castiel is kissing him again in the now empty dining hall, their lips pressing soft and sweet against each other. Dean looks a different kind of embarrassed when Castiel pulls away.

Neither of them can seem to stop smiling.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean and Castiel meet again in the courtyard that evening, under a heavy, glittering sky. They sit in silence for a while, only looking up at the inky night above their heads, their fingers splayed together, their palms barely touching, before Dean speaks. His voice is soft and warm and Castiel wants to close his eyes at the sound and curl up, deep inside Dean’s voice.

“Do you think I’ll ever be able to go and see the mountains, with you?” He asks. “Will I ever get to see _your_ home?”

“I hope so,” Castiel replies honestly. He continues to stare at the space of heaven above their heads; the stars glimmer in warm yellows and reds and pale blues and silvers; the blackened silhouettes of bats and night-birds flit across the velvet surface of the sky and starlight. The moon above them paints the stone walls of the castle in a pure, cold light. The air smells sweetened, like the first blossoms of springtime, and Castiel considers absently that it’s most likely because of the dew. The grass beneath them is gloriously soft and damp, and looks a rich, dark enough green to be black in the dimming light. “I’d like for you to see where I live.”

“I hope so, too.” Dean nods distractedly, and Castiel turns to see that Dean’s eyes have flicked down to Castiel’s lips, again. The Angel’s face heats, although something happy and smug pulses brightly through him at the expression painted across Dean’s features, at the honey and spices that seep into his voice. “I’ve always wanted to.”

“You’ve said.” Castiel’s lips twitch upwards, and Dean’s gaze flicks back up to meet Castiel’s again. Castiel watches as a smile tugs at Dean’s features.

“Yeah, well now, more than ever.”

“Why is that?” Castiel frowns, slightly.

Dean laughs as though Castiel is missing something totally obvious.

“Because the mountains have _you.”_ Dean grins, and Castiel flushes, looking down; which makes Dean laugh again and tangle his fingers with Castiel’s properly, now. Their palms slot together and Dean leans forward to bump his forehead gently against Castiel’s. “What would you show me first, if you were to give me a guided tour?”

“I don’t know.” Castiel shrugs. “Well, hopefully it would end slightly better than my tour of Hera,” He jokes, but looks up to see Dean blushing, seemingly mortified.

_“Cas—”_

“I’d probably show you the view from my window.” Castiel smiles. “Every morning I wake up and see the sun rising upon the face of the earth.”

“That must be beautiful.” Dean states, distantly. His lips are parted, his eyes seem as deep and wondrous as the forests outside Castle Hera’s walls.

“Very,” Castiel nods. “I always look out, to where your Human Kingdoms lie, imagining your lives, here.”

“I always look out of my window at the mountains, imagining _Angels’_ lives.” Dean laughs earnestly. His smile is loose at his lips, the corners of his eyes crease, his nose crinkles warmly. Castiel feels as though he is sinking into warm, velvet waters at the look on the Human’s face.

“Really?” His lips are tugged upwards into a weak smile. Whatever he feels in this moment, it doesn’t quite want to smile, only bury itself in Dean and his voice and his features, bury itself and live there forever.

“Yes,” Dean confirms. “Every morning and every night.”

“You think of the Angels, each time?”

“I do.” Dean nods. His eyes are soft and warm, something flickers and dances behind them with unprecedented delicacy. “But now, after you leave, I think I’ll look out and think of you.”

“I’ll think of you, also.” Castiel beams. He feels lightheaded with the look Dean is giving him. He swallows hard, an attempt to steady himself, yet it’s futile, because the giddy feeling seeping through his bones isn’t going to leave no matter how many times he wishes it away.

“You promise?” Dean asks, raising his eyebrows slightly at Castiel.

“I promise.” Castiel replies sincerely.

“What does it look like—the sunrise—up in the mountains?” Dean asks softly, and he leans back into the grass again, and tugs at Castiel’s hand to indicate that he wants the Angel to join him there. Castiel offers a small smile and lies back, too. His shoulder is pressed snugly against Dean’s, he shifts his wings so that they lie up, rising above their heads, and Dean moves down to make space for them. “I’ve always thought it must be beautiful.”

“It is.” Castiel smiles gently at Dean. “The sun dances off the rocks; the peaks of the mountains catch its rays and I watch as it stretches shadows next to brilliant glimmers of light along the rising surface of my home. It makes the snow glitter white and orange like precious stones and sets warm, spiralling colours into the clouds.”

“That’s beautiful.”

Dean’s face is inches from Castiel’s. His eyes are distant, like the stars above their heads.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “It is.” His eyes flicker down to Dean’s lips.

“I wonder what it’s like, living with so much beauty in your world…” Dean mumbles, and he sounds even more distant than before. “Seeing it every day? I’d feel so lucky.” He huffs a timid laugh out of his nose. “I suppose I ought to say that I _will_ feel so lucky, when I do.”

“I have to remind myself how lucky I am to live there.”

“I wasn’t talking about the mountains.” Dean shakes his head.

“Then what were you—”

Dean’s nose grazes Castiel’s.

“—Oh.” The Angel finishes.

“Oh,” Dean repeats, his lips being tugged upwards. “Yeah.”

“I don’t think I want to go back.” Castiel confesses; and he knows that this is an absurd thing to say, but he has said it anyway, and he knows that he has only known Dean for two days, but this feels right, and _Dean_ feels right—and Castiel likes Dean’s eyes and his smile and the way that he talks and all the things that he says, and the way that Castiel feels _understood,_ as though he isn’t so alone, when he is with the Human—and he really doesn’t want to have to lose that.

“That’s ridiculous, Cas.” Dean laughs, but his eyes are soft and understanding and his smile is anything but unkind. “It’s your home.”

“But things feel right with you—”

“And I won’t be going anywhere, Castiel.” Dean reminds. “I’ll be right here waiting for you. And if you’ll recall, it’s not exactly the first and last time we’re going to see each other.”

“Of course.” Castiel nods. He is being foolish, he should know better than throwing his feelings out into the open air, he—

“But for the record, Cas, I wish you could stay, too. Or, I wish I could go with you.” Dean’s eyes crinkle at their corners.

“And what would become of your brother?”

“If I were going, he’d be coming, too.” Dean chuckles. A smile sets at Castiel’s lips.

“How much longer do you think the stay will be?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t know.” Dean replies, shrugging and shaking his head. “But a while, I hope.” He laughs. “I don’t want you to go, just yet.”

“Do you know how the negotiations have been progressing?” Castiel enquires. The thick grass beneath his head tickles at his ears as he regards Dean. The Human shakes his head again.

“Nope,” He replies, “I just know that my father is _still_ in a pissy mood with Angels in general.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He came up to me today, out of the blue—this was just after I’d left you in the library—and started ranting to me about how he didn’t like how well the two of us were getting along and that I should remind myself who I ought to be ‘loyal’ to. But you were right about him indoctrinating all his beliefs onto me; and I told him as much, and he got pretty angry.”

“You angered your father, because of me?” Castiel asks, and he feels an ugly combination of guilt and worry worm up inside of his heart.

“He was in a shitty mood anyway, Cas.” Dean shrugs like it’s not anything to be concerned by; but Castiel’s nerves are not so easily extinguished. “And he made it out like me getting along with you meant me abandoning my family, too. Like I was betraying him, or something.”

“I don’t want you to—”

“He’s doing this ‘cause he feels threatened, Cas.” Dean turns onto his side so that he is facing Castiel completely, now. “Either that, or it’s just because he still dislikes Angels that much. And _both_ are shitty excuses. He’s one of the people who helped arrange all this, after all.”

“I still—”

“Don’t feel bad.” Dean shakes his head. “I had a lot of time to think it over during training, and do you know what I realised?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“It’s his problem.” Dean smiles. “And he’s going to have to be the one to deal with it. Not me.”

Castiel’s lips are twitched upwards, and he turns on his side to face Dean properly.

“How was your time in the library?” Dean asks, pressing the flat of his palm against Castiel’s again.

“It was nice.” Castiel answers thoughtfully. “It was _very_ nice.” He corrects.

“I’m glad.” Dean beams. “What did you read?”

“A lot of things.” Castiel laughs. “I didn’t get to finish everything.” He confesses.

“That’s okay.” Dean shrugs, and he squeezes Castiel’s hand. “You can go again tomorrow.”

“I could.” Castiel agrees. “Would you like to come with me?”

“I thought you could already tell, Cas, I’m not much of a bookish type.” Dean grins.

“I don’t think that’s true.” Castiel shakes his head.

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, today, you liked listening to me recite poetry well enough. _More_ than well enough.”

“True,” Dean admits, “But that was mainly ‘cause it was being said by _you.”_

Castiel blushes.

“And maybe you just haven’t found the right book, yet.”

“You could show me one.”

“I could.” Castiel nods. “So—is that a yes?”

“Okay,” Dean laughs. The moonlight splashes half of his face in silver light, the other half is concealed by shadows cast by the grass. “It’s an okay. I’ll go with you. But we’re still teaching you to ride, remember?”

“We can do that beforehand, just as we did today.” Castiel shrugs. “And then I can thrash you in training, all over again.” He teases.

“Oh, that sounds like a challenge.” Dean laughs, winking at Castiel. “But I think I’ve figured out the perfect distraction for you, in combat, now.”

“And what’s that?” Castiel frowns.

 _“Me.”_ Dean replies simply, grinning, and Castiel is about to ask him what he means, but Dean leans forward and brushes his lips delicately against Castiel’s; only the softest touch imaginable, and _oh, that’s_ what Dean meant.

Castiel can see stars dancing on the back of his eyelids. When he pulls back from Dean’s lips, he sees them dancing in the Human’s eyes, also.

 

* * *

 

 

Each day is spent in a similar fashion after this. Dean wakes Castiel up early so that they may go on long rides together in the cool mist of morning through the depths of the forest—they either spend these rides talking, words flowing as freely as running water, or in comfortable silence together—and Castiel, who has spent his whole life feeling awkward and out of place, has never felt so at ease as when he is with Dean.

The first time Castiel falls off his horse, Dean laughs, but is by the Angel’s side before Castiel can even register any pain, asking him what hurts, and how badly. Castiel waits a moment before answering because he likes the feeling of Dean’s hands on his shoulders.

And he tries to bite down on his smile when Dean applauds him for getting back on his horse after the fall; but what Castiel doesn’t say is that he’d fall a hundred times for Dean, if only to have Dean’s hands on his body when his frame hits the ground.

Castiel likes to steal small glances in Dean’s direction, on these rides. He likes how close Dean seems to be with his horse; and Dean is beginning to say that Castiel and his horse seem to be growing closer, too.

The air smells sharp when it is this early. It reminds Castiel of home; which he likes, because it feels like he is getting both home and Dean, which he knows ought to be impossible. The mist that settles on the ground of the fields and of the forest is cool and damp on Castiel’s skin, and he decides that he enjoys the feeling of it against him, particularly when Dean is riding next to him, complaining about how this is hardly the weather of summer.

On these rides they talk of many things. They talk of Dean’s mother and how much he misses her, of what Castiel has heard his own mother was like—Castiel confesses his feelings guilt, that his mother’s death was his fault—and Dean’s reassurance actually comforts Castiel where countless others’ attempts have failed before.

Sometimes they stop on their rides to allow their horses a break and to graze quietly at the surrounding plants—while Dean and Castiel lie on the dew-covered ground, their bodies pressed together; their lips meeting to kiss slowly for what feels like a glorious infinity. The sun pours down upon them like honey through the dappled leaves of the forests in these hours, Dean’s otherwise light brown hair seeming to be threaded with gold in the sunlight.

After riding, at around midday, they return the horses to their paddocks and sit in the library together for what is apparently hours; but what doesn’t feel nearly as long to Castiel.

Castiel likes this time, too. He likes that their shoulders are close enough so that they are touching, brushing each other softly; that Dean asks Castiel to read his favourite passages to him, the look that will glass over Dean’s eyes as Castiel reads; that sometimes Dean’s hand will stray into Castiel’s hair and their lips will meet again for soft, sweet, lingering kisses.

They don’t kiss too often in the castle. And never when anyone else is looking. Castiel thinks that he likes it more, this way. It keeps these moments special. It’s like he and Dean are both in on some wonderful, precious secret that the rest of the world couldn’t possibly understand. He doesn’t know what he and Dean are. They haven’t said. It’s better this way. Saying it aloud would mean acknowledging just what they feel for each other, and Castiel doesn’t think he can do that. He suspects Dean feels the same.

Sometimes, during those quiet hours together, he will catch Dean staring at him—Castiel doesn’t usually point this out, or ask why—he likes the feeling of Dean’s gaze upon his skin, particularly when he thinks of how much wonder he is being regarded with. He doesn’t know why Dean would look at him with anything like wonder. Castiel is awkward and quiet and doesn’t understand _any_ social cues—it is Castiel’s fault his mother is dead, it is his fault Michael had to take responsibility so early—Castiel is nervous and his head is a messy and even _more_ nervous place, but Dean seems to think that he’s beautiful in every way conceivable.

After sitting together in the library, reading, listening to the other read aloud, they go out to train again. Dean takes up Castiel’s challenge of archery around a week into Castiel’s visit, on the condition that Castiel takes up his challenge of fighting without weapons.

Castiel states how uneasy he feels about this; how concerned he is that one of them will get hurt, but Dean reassures him that neither of them will be allowed to throw any punches—the person who manages to floor the other, and pin them to the ground first, wins.

Castiel finds out why Dean was so keen on this idea shortly after Dean catches him out by surprise; his body slamming Castiel’s to the floor—and before Castiel is given a moment to gasp the air back into his lungs, Dean is grinning and pressing his lips so hard against Castiel’s that the Angel forgets how to think.

The two of them will sit together at each meal. Castiel sometimes catches on of his siblings glancing in his direction, and smiling somewhat condescendingly, but he ignores every one of these expressions. Michael is always deep in conversation with Dean’s father at these meals and so it is difficult for Castiel to be able to speak to him; but at least tensions with the Human King seem to be dying down somewhat.

Although Castiel wonders if this is really a good thing or not—the fact that an agreement looks as though it is on the way also means that the Angels’ visit will be ending soon, and Castiel will have to return home; will have to leave Dean.

Dean tells Castiel, when evening has fallen and the two of them are sat outside in their usual spot in the courtyard, of how he sleeps better after sitting here with the Angel. Castiel smiles and tells Dean how glad he is.

Dean’s eyes often trace the outlines of Castiel’s wings—he still stares at them, Castiel has noted, as though he can’t quite believe that they’re there—but on one occasion Dean actually says something of them instead of merely looking.

“Can I touch them?” He asks quietly, as if this could possibly be offensive, as though he might accidentally scare Castiel away. Castiel peers at Dean, frowning.

Angels don’t usually touch each other’s wings, not unless they are very close. And Castiel _is_ very close with Dean, but letting him touch his wings would be acknowledging that, and even if Dean doesn’t know what it means, Castiel does; and he feels guilty at the thought that this would mean something to Castiel and potentially _nothing_ to Dean.

“Sorry—” Dean says quickly, when Castiel doesn’t respond, “I wasn’t thinking.” He ducks his head, blushing, and Castiel wants to graze his fingers under Dean’s chin and pull those pretty green eyes back up to meet with his own.

“It’s just—” Castiel bites his lip. “—It’s seen as a kind of intimacy in Angel culture—it’s supposed to mean a lot if someone touches your wings— _they’re_ supposed to mean a lot to you.”

“I get it.” Dean looks both downcast and mortified. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want you to…” Castiel looks at Dean, whose eyes flicker back up to Castiel’s face. “…I just—I thought you should know, before you did. If you still wanted to, that is.”

“Wait—so you—” Dean stammers over his words, and Castiel would find it adorable if he wasn’t so nervous. “—You’re saying I can? And you’re saying that I’m—”

“Yes,” Castiel nods, and this time, he is the one who is unable to make eye contact.

“Thank you.” Dean’s voice cracks, the sound barely noticeable. “Wow—thank you.”

Castiel still doesn’t look up, not until he feels Dean’s fingers brush softly against his cheeks.

“I mean a lot to you?” Dean asks, a distant, lost look settling deep within his eyes.

“You do,” Castiel nods.

“You mean a lot to me, too,” Dean beams. Castiel mirrors the expression without realising it.

And then, Dean lifts his hand, slowly, and holds it inches away from Castiel’s feathers, and Castiel thinks he has forgotten how to breathe—either that, or all the air in all the world has suddenly run out; but whichever it is, he definitely thinks his lungs have collapsed. Dean’s face is inches from his own when he speaks once more.

“Can I touch them?” He asks again, and all Castiel can do is nod weakly. Dean lets out a shaky breath that reminds Castiel to breathe, himself, but the air is knocked clean out of his lungs all over again when Dean’s fingers dance softly, timidly over Castiel’s feathers.

Dean’s eyes stay trained on his hand for a while, on the place where his fingers make contact with Castiel’s wing, before they flutter back up to Castiel’s face, Dean letting out another huff of air, soft against Castiel’s lips, and he smiles softly as his eyes lock with Castiel’s.

And then his hand trails down, his fingers grazing over each feather, and Dean is still smiling, and his eyes flick back to Castiel’s wing before meeting again with Castiel’s gaze.

“It’s so soft,” He almost laughs, and Castiel’s breath is shallow when he replies.

“Thank you?” He feels his forehead twist into a slightly confused frown, but it doesn’t last long, because Dean actually _does_ laugh, this time, and his thumb skims under the feathers, and Castiel has to gasp and press his forehead against Dean’s, because it feels _good,_ and he thinks Dean realises it, because he repeats the action.

“You like that?” Dean asks, his voice thick and quiet. Castiel nods. Dean’s nose bumps with Castiel’s. “I like doing it.” He says softly, and Castiel doesn’t think before he spreads his wing out further, a silent request that Dean touches _more._

Dean laughs again, the sound quiet, gentle, and his other hand meets with Castiel’s other wing, and Castiel closes his eyes and doesn’t realise when he lets the moan escape his lips.

Something burning is set coursing under his skin, and it prickles at Castiel’s flesh, painful and addictive, and Castiel feels Dean’s lips brush against his, delicate and barely there at all.

“Lie back.” Dean instructs softly, and Castiel does, and Dean’s legs are on either side of Castiel’s body, and his hands are still tracing over every stretch of wing that they can reach, and Castiel closes his eyes as Dean bends down to place another gentle, barely-there kiss at the Angel’s lips.

Castiel likes how gentle Dean’s hands are with him; he likes the reverence they seem to be touching him with. He sears this memory into his soul, burns the image of him and Dean in the starlight lying with one-another, engraves it onto his heart.

Dean settles on top of Castiel, his hands still tracing Castiel’s wings delicately, his head on Castiel’s chest, and Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever felt so content. Dean’s breathing matches his own. His fingers move up to card gently through Dean’s hair. Castiel doesn’t even realise when he falls asleep.

“Cas?” Comes a soft, sleepy voice that rouses Castiel as well as relaxing him still more; and Castiel stirs, his eyes sliding open slowly. He realises suddenly that he is outside, and that the night sky is almost pitch black, save for the stars flickering dimly overhead—and that Dean’s body is resting on his own. “We fell asleep,” Dean states dumbly. Castiel thinks that this is a rather obvious conclusion to come to; but knows better than to say as much.

“Oh,” He says instead, and he feels Dean’s right hand slide off from where it had been resting on Castiel’s wing, in-between his feathers, and only has time to think about how horribly bare and naked that space feels now, and how much he dislikes the absence of Dean’s touch, when Dean’s left hand does the same.

“We should head back up.” Dean states, and Castiel’s heart sinks a little. He can only bring himself to nod in response, but he wonders if Dean is even able to see this in the darkness. “C’mon,” Dean says, and he stands up and holds out his hand for Castiel to take, which the Angel does. Dean tugs him to his feet.

Castiel is thankful when Dean’s hand doesn’t leave his own. He holds onto it tightly, and Dean walks close enough to Castiel that their shoulders brush.

They walk in silence together to Castiel’s room and neither of them mention the burning presence that sits between them; the fact that they have both acknowledged that they definitely mean _something_ to each other, the fact that Dean’s head was rested on Castiel’s chest only moments beforehand as both of them rested in the dim starlight.

Dean stops outside Castiel’s door.

“Thank you,” He mumbles, gently, and Castiel doesn’t need to ask what for. Dean’s palm is still pressed flat against Castiel’s. “I’m so glad it was you.” He smiles, voice the sincerest sound of happiness that Castiel thinks he has ever heard; the Angel’s lips can only twitch upwards before Dean’s meet his again—this kiss is soft and slow and sweet and Castiel thinks he can feel one of Dean’s fingertips trace one of his feathers, before Dean pulls back and slides his hand onto Castiel’s shoulder, giving it a gentle, warm squeeze.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He says simply. There is one last squeeze before Dean is gone, and Castiel swallows hard, his head feeling dizzy, and pushes the door of his room open as quietly as possible so as not to draw the attention of any guards. He collapses on his bed; thinking about how much warmer it would feel if Dean were in it, too.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Dean wakes Castiel up a little later than usual. His knocks are quiet and timid, and Castiel thinks that Dean regrets the turn things took the night previously.

“Sorry I’m late,” Dean says, quietly. “It turns out Sammy saw me coming back late last night, and he wanted an explanation.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, his voice almost a whisper, although he isn’t quite sure why. “And what did you say?”

“I told him the truth.” Dean shrugs. “Well,” He amends, a smile flickering across his features, “half the truth. But he doesn’t need to know the rest.” And he winks at Castiel, at that, who feels his face flush; but before he can duck his head, Dean is tugging him by the hand out his room, and down the corridor.

“I thought we could try and go a bit faster, today.” Dean explains as they walk, and Castiel frowns. “You know, a little faster than cantering, maybe even galloping.”

“Are you sure I’d be ready for that?” Castiel asks, timid. Dean grins and shrugs.

“I wouldn’t be suggesting it if you weren’t, would I? And we’re over two weeks into your stay, and it looks like negotiations are drawing to a close—I’d like you to be able to go fast on a horse, before you leave.”

Oh. Castiel had almost forgotten. He’ll be leaving eventually.

“I don’t want you to go, either,” Dean says gently, as if reading Castiel’s mind. “But we’ll still write to each other, won’t we? And we’ll see each other again.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, but his eyes are still trained on the cold stone floor.

“And these past two weeks have been the best of my life,” Dean states. His words are somehow of incredible reassurance. “And I wasn’t expecting that at all. I wasn’t expecting any of this.”

“Me neither,” Castiel replies earnestly.

On their ride, Castiel falls only twice. Dean is by his side every time.

Dean applauds loudly when Castiel manages to break into a gallop and not fall off, and grins and pats the Angel’s shoulder, praising him; which makes Castiel’s face heat and sets a warm, fluttering feeling deep inside his chest.

Castiel finds Dean a book he thinks Dean will like when they visit the library.

“What’s this?”

“The first one of your books I ever read.” Castiel smiles. “Out of Human books, that is.”

“What’s it about?” Dean asks.

“Read it, and find out.” Castiel replies, his lips twitching up in amusement; but really, he isn’t saying because he _can’t,_ because the book is a book about love, and if Castiel says this his face will almost certainly heat and Dean will notice, and Castiel doesn’t know how he feels about Dean, yet he knows that his affections for the Human are growing steadily out of his own control.

Dean laughs and bumps his shoulder against Castiel’s.

“Fine,” He concedes. “You like it, then?”

“Yes.” Castiel nods. “I wouldn’t be recommending it to you if I didn’t.”

“Then I’m sure I’ll like it, too.” Dean’s lips curl into a warm smile.

At dinner, Dean’s foot is touching Castiel’s under the table. Neither of them mention it. Neither of them move.

Castiel notices Dean sit up militantly when his father stands.

“The King, Michael, and myself, have reached a conclusion upon our agreements;” He announces to the hall. Castiel’s heart drops suddenly.

He grows certain that the hall around them is collapsing.

“Which brings an end to their first visit—to be the first of many—in several centuries. Tonight is the last great feast we will hold with the Angels in our company, as they will be leaving the morn of tomorrow. As always, they will be welcome guests to our kingdom and we are both honoured to have hosted them these past weeks, and deeply grateful to them for aiding us in our conflict against the Demons.”

Michael stands and says a few words—he thanks the company for being so hospitable, and repeats much of what Dean’s father has already mentioned. Castiel is looking down at the table; his eyes glassing over, burning with tears. He doesn’t even realise when his brother sits down and all the assembly begins to speak again.

“Did you know about any of that?” Dean asks quietly, fingers resting cautiously on the inside of Castiel’s elbow. He looks up to see the Human frowning, and his eyes contain the same sadness that Castiel feels coil up in his gut.

“No.” Castiel replies honestly, shaking his head. “I had no idea.”

Dean nods, and there is a pause.

“What about you?” Castiel asks.

“I didn’t have a clue.” Dean’s voice cracks. “—I’m sorry—”

Dean’s hand is resting on the table. Castiel slips his own into it.

“Tonight—” Dean starts, looking up at Castiel. “—Meet me at the usual spot. Please?”

“Okay.” Castiel nods, and the two of them sit quietly like this for the rest of the meal. Castiel thinks his heart has slid down into his stomach.

 

 _“Why didn’t you tell me?!”_ Castiel scowls at his brother, storming into Michael’s room and slamming the door behind him when they have left the feast. Michael raises his eyebrows coolly from where he sits, and Castiel snarls at the look. _“Why didn’t you tell me that we were leaving tomorrow?!”_

 _“You hardly gave me the chance, Castiel.”_ Michael replies dispassionately, picking up a book that sits beside his chair and flipping through it idly. _“What with you being so busy with your little Human prince, and all.”_

 _“You_ told _me to get to know him better!”_ Castiel glowers, and he hates how unconcerned Michael looks. “ _And_ You _were the one who organised me marrying him, remember?!”_

 _“I can recall, surprisingly enough.”_ Michael responds, not bothering to look up from his book. _“And I’m afraid I’m going to have to remind you to watch your tone with me, Castiel.”_

 _“What’s all this noise?”_ Anna frowns, entering the room, and for the first time, a flicker of annoyance crosses Michael’s features.

 _“Our little prince is having a tantrum because I didn’t tell him of the conclusion of our meetings.”_ He replies icily. Castiel’s jaw clenches at the dispassion in his brother’s voice.

 _“Why didn’t you tell him?”_ Anna asks, crossing her arms after closing the door behind her.

 _“Because, sister, it was none of his business.”_ Michael is still acting calmly, but Castiel sees his grip tighten on the book he is holding, and a muscle twitches in his jaw when he speaks.

 _“You know that’s not true!”_ Castiel shouts, voice raking against his throat like gravel. Anna glances at him fiercely in an attempt to force him into regaining his temper, but it is to no avail.

 _“It’s not my fault you spent all of your time following your Human around like a love-sick child.”_ Michael’s eyes flick over to Castiel, who flinches back at the coldness of the action.

 _“Michael, he’s betrothed to the boy—”_ Anna attempts to reason, before Castiel can shout at his brother for the insult aimed in Castiel’s direction.

 _“And what I say in_ my _negotiations with the Human King is none of his concern!”_ Michael shouts now; or rather, he yells. Castiel recoils, yet again. The room around them trembles, the wiry, thin glass of the windows shaking in their panes. Castiel glances at Anna for support, and feels terrified when he sees her, almost trembling herself, quite shocked into speechlessness by Michael’s outburst.

There is a horrible silence. Michael has stood up; the book is discarded beside the chair he was sitting on moments before. He stretched his wings out fiercely behind him when he began to shout, and Castiel is shaking; shaking uncontrollably, because his brother has never shouted at him like that before, has never made him feel so _afraid._ As Michael steps threateningly towards his youngest brother, fire and ice dancing in his eyes, Castiel thinks worriedly that maybe this time he has pushed too far.

 _“Michael, enough! You’re starting to sound like Lu—”_ Anna tries to snarl, but Michael takes a vicious step forward, fury and hatred scrawled across his face.

 _“No!”_ He bellows. _“How_ dare _you say that, Anael, when you_ know _what I have just had to do—don’t you_ ever think _to say that to me, again—not when you know all that you_ do _know—not now, not_ ever!” His voice thunders and the room shakes again and Castiel takes another step back, his wings flattening back against the wall, his hands trembling. His heart has risen up to the back of his throat; he can no longer see his beloved older brother where Michael stands, anymore, and it terrifies him.

 _“Castiel, leave.”_ Michael spits, and Castiel glances up at Anna, who looks terrified, silently pleading for her to exit too, but she shakes her head softly, not looking at him; and Castiel knows it is because Michael has not permitted her leave, also.

 _“Anna—”_ He tries, terrified of what it is Michael will do to her when Castiel exits, yet Anna shakes her head again. She is trembling too, terrified, and Castiel is nearly crying. He tries tugging at her hand, but she pulls it out of his grip with far more force than necessary.

 _“Anael,”_ Michael has deflated, his wings are lowering, he looks suddenly ashamed, _“You may leave, also.”_

Castiel’s sister breathes suddenly outwards. Castiel pulls her out of the room, the tears finally leaking onto his face. Anna makes sure that she closes the door behind her, sighing in relief when it is shut.

 _“Castiel,”_ She shakes, pressing her back against it, and Castiel doesn’t think before pressing himself into her arms, trying to hold back his own tears. _“It’s okay,”_ She hushes, stroking his hair. _“It’s okay.”_

 _“Why—”_ Castiel starts, his breath shaking as he attempts to stop crying. Anna hushes him again, squeezing his body to hers.

 _“It doesn’t matter.”_ She shakes her head.

_“What did he mean—”_

_“It doesn’t matter.”_ Anna repeats, but it _does_ matter, it _does,_ clearly, and Anna is not telling him. _“You’ll find out in time, Castiel, I promise.”_

Castiel is tired of that promise. He hates it. He hates that he is being made to leave at such short notice, that he is going to spend another year—possibly more than that—trapped in his own home with only his brother for company—a brother who Castiel now finds terrifying.

He doesn’t want to have to be without Dean, who is the only person in all the world Castiel has met who actually _understands_ Castiel, and who Castiel, in turn, understands too.

He realises that he is still shaking.

“Go to sleep, little one.” Anna hushes. “Go to sleep and everything will be alright, come morning.”

It’s a pathetic promise, one for a child a fraction of Castiel’s age, who’s been awoken by a horrible nightmare, but the younger Angel nods weakly.

He trudges into his room, Anna wishing him a good night at the door, and slides into his bed. He finally stops shaking, and remembers that he is meant to meet Dean, and, drawing a shuddering breath, he sits up on his bed and places his feet on the floor.

When he reaches the open doorway to the courtyard, Dean is already there waiting for him.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks, pressing the palm of his hand onto Castiel’s cheek. Castiel closes his eyes at the touch, and doesn’t realise when he presses his body flush against Dean’s; when Dean’s arms curl around his frame, when he presses his face into Dean’s neck, and when Dean, in turn, presses his face into Castiel’s shoulder.

“What happened?” Dean asks, when the two finally pull apart, after Castiel-doesn’t-quite-know-how-long.

“Michael… he…” The Angel bites his lip, “it doesn’t matter.” Castiel sighs. “I barely know what happened myself,” He admits.

“Okay,” Dean nods softly. “Well, going outside isn’t exactly an option, tonight.”

“What makes you say that?” Castiel asks, finally glancing out the open door, but his question is answered for him; and he wonders just how terrible one would have to be feeling to fail to notice the rain thundering down quite so violently outside.

“That.” Dean states, laughing. Massive drops plash into the water in the fountain, hammer against the grass, turning the ground murky, and smack at the leaves of the peach tree until it is trembling by the force of the gale.

“What should we do instead?” Castiel asks, looking back at Dean, because he doesn’t want to have to go with being without Dean tonight, when it is very possibly the last time he will be able to do so in what could be months or even _years_.

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugs. “We could sit in my room for a bit? Just talk?”

“Okay.” Castiel nods, swallowing. Dean squeezes Castiel’s arm softly.

“It’s going to be alright.” He reassures, but Castiel doesn’t know _how._

They sit on Dean’s bed cross legged, opposite each other, for hours. Dean suggests that they play cards, and when Castiel confesses that he doesn’t know how, Dean is so shocked that he teaches the Angel several different games, of which they play several times, before the two of them decide to stop and simply talk instead.

And neither of them think twice about it when Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s body and presses his face into the base of Dean’s neck; when they lie down like this, when Castiel’s wings move to cover them both, when the two of them fall asleep, tangled together on Dean’s bed.

Castiel wakes up and is scared something will have changed between them; but really, what could have? They’ve fallen asleep like this before: the night Dean first asked to touch Castiel’s wings—except Castiel thinks that it means even _more_ this time; but maybe it doesn’t mean that much to Dean and maybe Castiel is growing too attached to the boy, maybe he should have listened to what all the Angels had told him when he was younger, and stamped down on his feelings; stifling them, drowning them—because really, all that would hurt less than he does, right now.

Dean stirs next to him—his body is caught up in Castiel’s arms; his legs tangled with Castiel’s legs—and Castiel wishes for a moment that the two of them were not wearing clothes; that he could feel Dean’s bare back against his own bare chest—but Dean stirs again, and Castiel is torn from this wish, or rather dream, and back into reality.

Dean sighs and turns in Castiel’s arms, so that his face is pressed against Castiel’s skin.

It’s funny—it’s the most innocent of touches, and yet it sets a blazing heat deep in Castiel’s flesh, scorching his blood and burning into his soul.

“We’re gonna have to return you to your room, soon, aren’t we?” Dean asks sleepily. Castiel feels his heart sink again.

“I don’t want to go.” He replies honestly, and his voice is small and it cracks as he speaks, and Dean lifts his head up to look at Castiel and pulls the Angel’s body tight against his own.

“I know.” He says simply, and Castiel is scared he’s going to start crying, although he isn’t sure why. “I don’t want you to go, either.”

Castiel closes his eyes.

“I’ll wait.” Dean says, softly. “I’ll wait for you, if that’s what you want. I’d wait a thousand years if I had to. I’ll wait for you, while you’re gone.”

“I want that.” Castiel nods. Dean’s thumb grazes his cheek. “I—I’ll count the days until I see you again. And wait for you, too. Of course. of course I’ll wait.”

“And I’ll write to you every chance I get.”

“And I’ll reply to every letter you send.”

“I’m glad.” Dean laughs. He sits up, and Castiel feels bare, and the air around them is altogether too cold without Dean tangling his body with Castiel’s. “Come on,” He says, fingers squeezing Castiel’s shoulder. “Before anyone wakes up and realises you’re gone.”

Castiel nods and sits up, too, and Dean takes the Angel’s hand in his own and places a soft kiss onto Castiel’s palm. Castiel lets himself wonder what it is the touch means.

“I don’t think I’ve ever slept that well, Cas.” Dean admits, and he’s smiling, which makes Castiel smile too, despite himself. “Not since my mother died. Not since fighting in war.”

Castiel nods and manages to maintain eye contact with Dean.

“I’m glad.” He says softly, and he means it.

Dean’s lips twitch into some expression that makes Castiel feel warm inside again, and the Human tugs him up, off the bed, and leads him back into Castiel’s own quarters. He squeezes Castiel’s hand at the door.

“I’ll wait.” He promises again, and they kiss, slower and sweeter than any of the kisses they’ve shared before; because both of them know it may be their last chance to do so for an unspeakably long time. Castiel’s hands wander over Dean’s back, to the fascinating absence of wings there, and into his hair, carding through it slowly as Dean’s fingers cautiously trace Castiel’s feathers.

“I’ll wait.” Dean says once more when they pull apart, and he squeezes Castiel’s hand one more time before leaving Castiel.

And the Angel can only bring himself to walk into his room and close the door behind him before he collapses on the floor, sliding down against the wooden frame, his hands palming the grey floor of the castle, cold and cruel and staggeringly real under his fingers.

He wishes he were able to say more to Dean than he finds himself able to.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he hears a knock at his door. It isn’t Anna, or Michael, or even Gabriel. It’s a servant, a Malakim. Castiel’s family can’t even bring themselves to speak to him right now.

They gather in the main courtyard after this; Dean and his father and brother stand by the main doors of the castle, the doors Castiel first walked through a little over two weeks ago; having no idea what it was he was in for, what it was he would feel by the end of the visit. The Angels are gathered on the steps below the King and his sons; nobles look out at the event from the balconies of the yard.

There are speeches, which Castiel finds himself unable to listen to, King John being the last person to make his. Castiel forces himself to look at Dean for the first time at this, and is surprised to see Dean already staring at him. His expression in unreadable, for a moment, before the Angel thinks he sees Dean’s gaze soften, both sad and happy, as he stares at Castiel. Castiel returns the look with something bittersweet coiling in his heart.

The last time he looks at Dean is just before the Angels enter their carriages. Castiel has been moved into Anna’s carriage, and he’s glad. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to speak to Michael after what happened last night.

Dean waves properly just before Castiel gets inside. It’s only small; short so others won’t notice—but of course Castiel does, and that’s all that matters. He bows his head to the future King of Hera before Anna tells him to hurry up and he enters the carriage.

He doesn’t talk for the entirety of the journey back. Anna doesn’t push him to. Instead he simply stares out the window, watching as the castle of Hera disappears completely into the distance, waning into a grey speck on the horizon and then slipping out of view entirely; as they pass villages and towns and finally leave the Kingdom, as they roll past trees and fields and forests and turn up into the hills.

Castiel thinks of the time he and Dean spent together, riding in places so similar to the stretching fields and calm woods he can see now. He misses it already, he misses it and he misses Dean.

It’s well after midnight of the next day when they get back to the foot of the hills of northern Hera, not even at the low mountains yet. Castiel has had to part ways with Anna and now he is sharing a chariot with Michael again. He shrinks into the corner as soon as he gets inside and tries to stop himself from trembling as much as possible, but it’s difficult to control himself in any kind of way.

 _“Castiel,”_ Michael says suddenly; the younger Angel flinches back, his eyes wide and afraid, which makes his older brother’s expression turn guilty and riddled with regret. Castiel looks down. _“—I’m… I’m sorry for everything.”_ Michael sighs. _“I wasn’t in a good way; and I know an apology is not nearly enough, but I’m sorry for the way I acted towards you. I never meant to scare you, nor have I_ ever _wanted to upset you, and that I did is…”_ He trails off, apparently uncertain of how to continue.

Castiel doesn’t reply. The silence is splintering.

 _“You could write to your Dean?”_ Michael suggests cautiously. _“And remain talking to him by those means?”_

 _“We already agreed to do that_.” Castiel says flatly, and he’s biting down on his anger, pressing his head against the side of the carriage so hard that he’s afraid he’s going to crack his own skull.

 _“Of course.”_ Michael nods. Another silence. _“I’m sorry.”_

_“You’ve said.”_

_“For losing my temper so badly,”_ Michael continues, ignoring Castiel’s rudeness, _“and scaring you, which I should never have done. And along with all this, for separating you from your friend.”_

Friend.

“You didn’t scare me.” Castiel says, and he doesn’t realise that he’s slipped out of speaking in Enochian and into Dean’s mother tongue. Michael does.

_“You grew very attached to him, I know.”_

Castiel rolls his eyes.

_“Remember that everything I do, Castiel, I do with your best interests at heart.”_

Castiel wants to doubt this simply to spite Michael.

His brother sighs.

_“And I understand if you would rather we spent the rest of this journey in silence…”_

Castiel only glares at his brother, which Michael takes as a confirmation that silence is what Castiel desires right now. The rest of the journey back to Evadne seems to take years.

The morning after their return is supposed to be one of the days that Castiel trains with his brother, but Michael doesn’t visit him for the entirety of the day. Castiel takes no issue with this.

When evening falls and Castiel is summoned to dinner by a servant, he states that he isn’t hungry. He does the same the next night. When he falls asleep, his stomach is growling loudly.

It’s worth it to avoid speaking to Michael.

After about a week, Michael comes knocking at his door.

_“Castiel, you cannot keep this up—”_

_“Then tell me_ why.”

 _“Why what?”_ Michael frowns.

 _“Why you didn’t tell me about us leaving so soon. Why you exploded so suddenly, why you were ‘in a bad way’; why you became so furious with Anna for what she said. Why you choose now to join the Demon war, what benefit there could_ possibly _be for the Angels, why the Demons have lasted on a defensive front for so many years when none can seem to fathom why—”_

_“I can’t tell you, Castiel—”_

Castiel gets up and closes the door in his brother’s face.

Another few days pass, and Michael doesn’t attempt to speak to Castiel again. He has a new trainer now; he eats his meals alone, he avoids passing Michael’s room or any of the halls and chambers where he knows Michael will be holding court or discussing matters with his advisors.

And then, weeks later, Castiel gets another knock at his door, and his brother cautiously opens it.

 _“You have a letter.”_ He smiles, and it’s a combination of affectionate and apologetic, and already Castiel is feeling tired of being angry at his oldest brother.

 _“Who from?”_ Castiel asks.

 _“Who do you think?”_ His brother’s lips twitch upwards a little more, and Castiel practically leaps off his bed to take it from him. Michael watches as Castiel reads it, scanning it over and over again, drinking in the words, the handwriting, everything about it.

_Dear Cas,_

_I hope you’re doing alright. Things are really boring here without you. I miss you an awful lot. I miss teaching you to ride and talking to you for hours and hours and I miss sitting and reading with you—I even miss losing to duels with you. Although to be honest, even that always had its benefits. I miss being able to spend evenings with you outside, now the courtyard that we spent all those nights in always reminds me of you—I find it sad and lonely to visit it now, because you’re not there and I can’t have the conversations that I was able to have with you there, with anyone else. It reminds me of you and my mother, sometimes it seems too beautiful for me to even enter. Imagine thinking that about a courtyard? I’ve been going mad with missing you._

_I finished that book you recommended to me. I liked it a lot. It reminds me of you, now, as most things seem to. I’ve started reading more, too—you were right, I just hadn’t found the right story and I just hadn’t got into it. I have now, obviously. In my studies I’ll spend the whole time thinking about how much I’d rather be reading one of the books that you would like, instead of the stupid shit I look at instead. The history of our kingdom doesn’t seem to hold anything to the adventures and transformations and love stories of the heroes in your tales. I miss you. Yesterday when I went riding, Shadow started whinnying from his paddock and I think he was expecting you to come along, too. I guess I’m not the only one missing your company._

_I’m not quite sure when you’ll get this letter—it’s far harder for Humans to travel around than it is for Angels, apparently; so it might take a long while. I know this’ll be super late, but I hope you had a good journey back._

_Father doesn’t seem to hate Angels as much anymore, which is obviously good. I mean, I think he still kind of dislikes your kind, but it’s definitely not as bad as it was before—and you’ve got to count your victories, Cas, however small they might be. I was thinking about the time you suggested jousting when I asked if you wanted to duel, last supper, and I started laughing about it all over again. I got some really funny looks from Bobby and my father. Bobby is Sir Robert, by the way—I don’t know if I told you that. Did you get to speak to him at all during your stay down here? He’s really great, sometimes he’s all that keeps me sane. Well, him and Sammy. And Jo. And Ellen, but she’s_ still _patronising as hell._

_Other recent events: Sammy has started training with me and I don’t think I like it. I feel like this over-sentimental parent saying that I don’t want him to start growing up; but damn it, I don’t want him to start growing up. Fuck. I sound a lot like Ellen. And him training means him being more likely to fight in war, and… I really don’t want that. Trying to talk to people in this place is hard. I think you’re the only one who’s ever actually understood me properly. I miss you. I’ve already said that, but it’s really true. I hope you get the idea, anyway._

_How are you? What have you been up to? Are things still kind of dull for you, up there?_

_You know what I forgot to ask while you were staying? I forgot to ask if you ever swam in the mountain lakes. Do you? Can you swim? I bet it’d be beautiful. Sammy and I sometimes go swimming in the rivers in the forest, but we haven’t done that for a while. Maybe we should do it again. Maybe the next time you come to visit, you and I should do it. I think I’d like that. Well—I know I’d like it, but I think I’d like just about anything as long as it’s with you._

_I’m sorry about this letter; it’s just me ranting and rambling about I-don’t-even-know-what. I just wanted to speak to you again. I really hope you write back. I miss you._

_Dean._

Castiel holds onto the parchment so tightly he’s a little scared it might tear. He sighs at Dean’s handwriting, at how much it seems to match Dean’s train of thought. He’s able to read it in Dean’s voice, even. It’s strange. It feels like a lifetime since he last saw the Human, since he was last able to speak his mind and true feelings.

 _“Is that what you were hoping for?”_ Michael asks, and Castiel looks up.

He can only nod in response.

 _“He sent a gift, too.”_ Michael says, holding out a package for Castiel, which the younger Angel takes and unwraps carefully. His lips twitch upwards when he sees what it is.

 _“A book.”_ Michael observes—and is that a smile in his voice?

 _“Yes.”_ Castiel nods.

_“He knows you well.”_

_“He does.”_ The younger Angel agrees. He smiles down at the cover, and opens to the first page. A small note is placed on the inside.

_‘Just as I promised._

_—This was my mother’s favourite book. I hope you like it, too.’_

Castiel picks up the note and holds it tightly, before folding it and placing it neatly back inside the cover. Something inside of him is starting to ache.

 _“Would you like to reply?”_ Michael asks.

 _“Of course.”_ Castiel frowns at his older brother.

Michael nods and sighs.

 _“I truly am sorry, Castiel…”_ He tries again, but Castiel looks down at the ground, and Michael sighs again, defeated, and begins to leave the room.

 _“You said that you’ve ridden, in the past, Michael?”_ Castiel asks, and his brother turns back to him, looking relieved.

 _“Yes,”_ The High King nods. “I have.”

_“And that was down in a Human Kingdom?”_

_“That’s where I first learnt, yes.”_

_“Do you miss it?”_

_“I do,”_ Michael nods again. _“Dean taught you to ride during our stay, I heard?”_

 _“Yes...”_ Castiel confirms. _“I miss it, too.”_

 _“And you miss him?”_ Michael asks, and Castiel looks away. His brother sighs again. _“I only say because—”_ Michael breaks off. Castiel watches as his older brother self-consciously rubs his neck. _“—I had Human friends, too. Or, a Human_ friend. _A close one. A long time ago. But—they’re—they’re gone now. Of course. All I mean is, I understand.”_

_“You didn’t tell me that.”_

_“Some things are better left unsaid, Castiel.”_

_“What happened?”_

Michael only repeats what he just said.

 _“Will you_ ever _tell me?”_ Castiel asks, hopeless.

Michael sighs.

_“One day, Castiel, I promise, I will tell you everything.”_

_“Why not now?”_

There is a pause before Michael answers.

_“Because I’m scared, little brother.”_

And with that, Michael leaves.

 _“Michael?”_ Castiel stumbles over to his door.

 _“Yes, little Sarim?”_ Michael replies.

 _“Do you want to train with me, tomorrow?”_ Castiel asks. He watches a glimmer hope flit into his brother’s eyes. _“My new trainer—he’s nowhere near as good as you. And I’ve missed you.”_

Michael smiles, and Castiel thinks he sees his brother’s eyes glass over.

_“I’d love to, Castiel.”_

Castiel smiles, too.

_“Thank you. I’ve missed you.”_

_“I’ve missed you, too.”_ Michael replies; and Castiel is sure he can see tears in his brother’s eyes, although he has no idea why. _“Will you want to join me for dinner, tonight?”_

 _“I’d like that.”_ Castiel smiles. Michael pulls the younger Angel towards him, squeezing his body against Castiel’s in a warm embrace, and then leaves for real, this time. Castiel goes back into his quarters. He pulls out some parchment and his quill. He spends the hour thinking of what to say in reply to Dean. Words said to Dean should be as perfect and pure as the Human is; words _written_ to him should be just the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those who have been commenting so far. You guys are what motivates me to keep writing.
> 
> If any of you have any kind of thoughts on the story, please share them by commenting! I love it when you do, and I'm a sucker for any kind of feedback.
> 
> Thanks for reading, next update should (hopefully) be up around the 10th/11th.


	8. War (The World Turns Grey)

 

> **“I am glad that you love me. Your letters have hurt me and healed me. Such sweetness, to be loved like that. But to be loved like that by you,—how shaking and terrible besides.”**
> 
> **—** **Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter to Arthur Davison Ficke**

  
  
  


_ Dean, _

 

 _Thank you very much for your letter. I definitely needed contact with someone, I was going a little mad alone inside the palace—and of course I would rather a letter from you than from anyone_ _else in all the Nine Kingdoms._ _Yes, I think I’m doing well enough—although Michael and I haven’t been speaking since the fight the day before we left Hera—I’ve been in a terrible mood with him; which I would like to think is justifiable yet it most probably isn’t. Anyway, today was the first time we held a proper conversation together since that night. I haven’t been training or eating dinner with him, so everything has been very lonely—but I think we’re training together again today, and will be dining together this evening. Hopefully things are getting better again._

_ I’m sorry to hear things are boring over in your Kingdom—I’d always been under the impression that you had slightly more to do in Hera than I have to do in my own home. I hope you find something to occupy your time, and soon. I miss you a lot, too. I miss everything that we used to do together. The words we shared in my time with you meant a lot to me, and I suspect will continue to do so until we see each other again. I pray that’s soon. _

_ I’m glad you liked the book I recommended to you—truth be told, I was slightly nervous that you  _ wouldn’t  _ like it, and I’m really quite relieved to hear that you do. Thank you very much for the book you sent me—your mother had a fine taste in literature. The story reminds me of you, just as your book reminds you of me. I’m trying not to feel too smug about being proven right on the topic of you finally enjoying reading—(Michael says pride is a poor trait to have)—But I told you so. I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Do you have a new favourite book? Perhaps you could recommend it to me. I do so miss your library; it had so many more—and so many more recent—books than what I have at my own disposal. Studies for me now mainly feature me poring over religious texts and scrolls, which is rather dull. I’m sure the pair of us would much rather swap places, looking at Human history seems far less tedious in comparison, though I’m certain you would say the opposite. _

_ I suspect Shadow will have long-forgotten me by the time I visit again—I’m not sure how good a horse’s memory is, but I’ll assume that it’s not brilliant—which is quite a sad thought. I miss riding with you, it was always somewhat peaceful despite the ridiculous amount of times I managed to fall. _

_ It’s been a few moons since I arrived back from Hera—the journey back was tedious and horribly awkward from the moment that I got in the carriage with Michael. Both of us were in utterly terrible spirits. I was probably in the worse one, but it’s always difficult to tell; because while I find containing my emotions an insurmountable task, Michael somehow generally manages it without any difficulty whatsoever. The exception to this of course being the night before we left—and I’m still attempting to work out why exactly his outburst occurred, and why it was as awful as it was. He of course has not told me what caused his explosion, despite my asking, and has only given me incomprehensible replies which are supposedly meant to help me understand his actions a little better—of course they do not—and if I write or think about any of this any longer I’m afraid I’ll lose my temper. It is probably for the best simply to move on. _

_ It’s reassuring that your father no longer hates Angels, or at least not so much. I wonder what changed his mind. Sometimes, I wonder what changed  _ your  _ mind—but whatever it was, I am glad for it. _

_ I wish I were with you again, although I am also glad to be in my home; and it feels like some horrible kind of riddle to think about how I could ever have both you and Evadne. I too have very few people to talk to in the palace, and I desperately wish you were here. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as understood as when I’m with you. I also don’t think I’ve ever fully understood someone as I do you. That said, Dean, I still think of you as an enigma, and I don’t understand how I can apparently comprehend someone so entirely yet still find them such a mystery. _

_ I’m sorry to hear about Sam training, that must be very hard for you. I suppose we can only hope that Hera finds peace before Sam reaches an age where he will be required to fight in battle. Is that sixteen, for Humans? I understand that was the age that you fought in the war with Dione.  _

_ And how are you? I do hope you’re well. Or at least less bored than you were when you last wrote. I am unsure of when this letter will reach you, but I pray it’s soon. Please write back. I miss your company very much, your words are such a comfort to me. _

_ And to answer your other question, I do on occasion swim in our lakes, yes. It’s a lot of fun, and although the water can be very cold, there are some bodies of water in between the mountains, which rest in sunlight, and so can actually be very warm. Others have hot springs beneath them and are even warmer. I don’t get to do this as often as I would like, however, and I suppose I have just answered your next question: Yes, I can swim. And I’m assuming you can, too? I think I’d enjoy swimming with you very much. _

_ Thank you so much for writing. I think I was losing my mind with boredom and loneliness. I’ve written back, now, so I hope you reply, also. I miss you too, as already stated. It sounds selfish, but I’m glad that you miss me, too. _

_ Castiel. _

 

* * *

 

 

Dean writes to Castiel every chance he gets, just as he promised. He isn’t sure what he and Cas became during the Angels’ time in Hera—something strange and complex and simple and glittering like the delicate stars in the sky; but he liked this odd, intricate, pure kinship he felt with Castiel’s soul, and he misses it so much that his heart burns.

He wrote to Castiel on his birthday, sending him another book to read. He likes the thought of the Angel sat in a corner of the library in Evadne, or perhaps in his own room, reading a story that Dean picked out for him personally.

Dean wonders how often Castiel thinks of him. He hopes it is half as often as he thinks of the Angel.

Cas sent him a gift on his birthday, too. It was a book again, but of Angel history, and Dean read the whole thing in only a few days. It was fascinating, and when he thinks of the effort that Castiel must have gone through to find it, the time it must have taken to find a book in  _ Edian  _ about the Angels, his heart basks in a new kind of sunlight that tastes of honey and flowers.

In the space of Castiel leaving Hera, Dean has been to war again. Ellen begged him endlessly not to go—to the point that it was inappropriate, even by her own standards—but Dean  _ had  _ to do it—not because he was being forced; but because the idea of letting down his father was too much for him to handle. 

He hasn’t told Cas.

All he’d said was that he’d be going away for a few months, and so wouldn’t be able to reply to any of his letters for a while. Dean wonders if Castiel knows, if he realised or worked it out for himself. He sure as hell hopes not. He doesn’t like thinking about what would’ve happened if he’d died in war, what Castiel would have gone through.

It’s been almost a year since he saw Cas last, and Dean wonders if the Angel’s affections for him have dwindled at all. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had, even if the warm, bright burning in Dean’s heart has only grown in strength—and with that, grown in pain—since he and Cas last saw each other.

He misses Castiel. He says so in every one of his letters.

Dean promised to wait for Castiel, but there had been no promise that Cas would wait for him. 

And Cas has been under no obligation to do so. And although Dean is trying his very hardest not to feel any kind of jealousy, even thinking about the Angels who are able to spend time in the same  _ castle  _ as Castiel makes something sour and envious rise up to the back of his throat.

Dean thinks about the night Castiel spent sleeping beside him very often.

He thinks about how much he wishes it had led to something more.

He thinks about how glad he is that it  _ didn’t  _ lead to something more.

Dean likes the burning innocence and purity of that night; this burning which had set under his skin, how calm he had felt just being  _ held— _ and maybe how Cas felt—and feels—the same way. Maybe. Hopefully.

It’s been almost a year since Dean saw Castiel last. He tries not to think about how much he misses the Angel, because that would be too close to acknowledging just how much he  _ feels  _ for the Angel, and Dean can’t do that. Not yet.

At least Dean did his father proud in war. Dean did something right. He never thought he’d be able to say that about himself—and the King was  _ so _ proud of Dean not failing him, apparently, he thought it was worthwhile celebrating. Dean knows that it was probably Bobby who pushed the King to this decision, but he tries to feel happy about it anyway.

…Dean is getting crowned Prince today.

He wants to feel excited and honoured and all of that regular bullshit—but right now he just feels really fucking afraid. Dean doesn’t think he wants to do this anymore and he doesn’t know if he _can._ He wishes Cas were here; wishes he were able to vent to the Angel, to explain how he feels without the fear of judgement, of Cas thinking less of him. As it is Dean can’t even talk to _Sammy_ about it; he’s so scared his brother will think him a coward. And Dean isn’t a coward. He really isn’t.

He wakes up early—just as he did on the morning of the Angels’ visit to his Kingdom—and stares at the ceiling, a heavy feeling of dread settling thickly in his stomach. Strange, that it’s nearly a year since he last saw Castiel, since the first time he met the Angels. Dean worries with every passing day that Cas will have forgotten him, that they will be strangers again, all over again, when they next speak.

Ellen knocks on his door at some point and tells him to get ready, and Dean does so. He grimaces every time he thinks of the robes he has to wear for the occasion, and now that he actually has them on, he feels more ill than ever.

“You look so grown up, Dean!” Ellen exclaims, beaming, as she enters the room. Dean wrinkles his nose at the condescension in her tone.

“I look like an  _ idiot _ ,” Dean scowls at his reflection in the mirror. “And stop talking to me like I’m a little kid.”

“You’ll always be a kid to me, Dean.”

“Ellen, if I had a pie for every time you’ve ever said that to me—”

“Lookin’ good, Dean,” Jo grins, leaning against the doorframe. “What’s the occasion?” She winks.

“I think I’m being made court jester, by the looks of my get-up.” Dean rolls his eyes, and Ellen sighs, batting Dean’s hand away when he tries to rough up his hair a little.

“Dean, you’re not ruining this day by having messy hair.” Ellen bites, attempting to pat it down.

“I’ll keep it neat if you stop talking down to me.”

“Never,” Comes Ellen’s sure reply. No wiggle room left there. “Are you wearing the shoes your father told you to wear?”

“Yes,” Dean groans, rolling his eyes. “Can’t you tell by how awful they look, Ellen?”

“Oh, Dean, don’t say that, they look great on you!” Jo laughs, stepping into the room, now. Dean grins at the fact that she doesn’t wear a dress, even today, but rather clothes herself like some kind of stable-boy; brown leggings, dark green blouse, faded, scuffed boots.

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re taking the piss?”

“Probably because I am,” Jo admits, grinning, and Dean attempts to give her a severely unimpressed look, but it fails miserably, which only makes Jo laugh all the more.

“Dean, you look great,” Ellen smiles, straightening out the material over Dean’s shoulders. “I’m so proud of you,” She beams. Dean hears Jo pretending to be sick, behind him.

“Thanks, Ellen,” He laughs, but what she’s said means a lot to him, and he is certain that his cheeks flame at her words.

“Dean!” Sam exclaims, bursting into the room. “You’re getting crowned Prince today!”

“Really, Sammy? Thanks for reminding me—‘cause I had no idea.” Dean snorts. Sam pulls a face at Dean and sits down next to Jo on Dean’s bed.

“What are little brothers for?” Sam laughs.

“I don’t know,” Dean frowns. “Annoying their older brothers?”

Sam giggles again and sticks his tongue out at Dean.

“Be careful not to get stage fright, today.”

“Be careful not to squish any passers-by with your enormous feet.”

“You’re just jealous ‘cause in a couple of months, I’ll be taller than you.”

“It’ll take more than a couple of months, believe me, Sammy.”

“So you’re admitting that one day I’ll be taller than you?”

“One day, maybe.” Dean admits, “But height isn’t everything, Sam.”

“You weren’t saying that when you thought you were always going to be taller than me...” Sam reminds.

“Whatever. I can still beat you in a fight—and do, by the way. Every time. Even if you were eight feet tall, I’d  _ still  _ beat you in a fight.”

“Hey Dean, did I tell you how much I like your robes today?” Sammy grins, and Dean just groans and rubs his face with the palms of his hands. “Very you.”

“You see, Ellen?” He grumbles, “I told you, I look like an idiot.”

“You look great, Dean, he’s just teasing you,” Ellen says. Dean scowls at his brother, who laughs and hops up from the bed. “Right, should we head down to the main hall?”

“Do we have to?” Dean groans.

“Yes.” Ellen nods firmly. “It was a rhetorical question, unfortunately for you, and you don’t have a choice on it. Come on.”

Dean feels sick again. He doesn’t like big crowds. He doesn’t  _ do  _ big crowds—he makes a scene and shows himself up as a huge, clumsy fool; he embarrasses himself, he embarrasses his  _ father,  _ he—

“Are you doing alright, there, Dean?” Ellen asks, frowning slightly as she peers at Dean with slight concern just outside the entrance hall. Jo and Sam continue on ahead of them, but Ellen holds Dean back. “You look a little queasy.”

Dean has somehow been so lost in his thoughts and anxieties that he hadn’t even noticed them walking through half the castle.

Today, he thinks inwardly, is going to be pretty fucking terrible.

“I  _ feel  _ a little queasy.” Dean admits; he feels his eyebrows knot up into a worried frown and he thinks his heart is rising up into his throat. He’s concerned that any second now he’s going to puke the organ up—along with several other vital body parts.

“Hey,” Ellen’s hand squeezes at Dean’s shoulder. Dean looks down, partly because the touch only reminds him of the way that Castiel used to comfort him, mainly because he’s mortified by his own nervousness. “Your father wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t think you capable. Remember that.”

“My father is only doing this because Bobby told him to.”

“That’s not true—”

“No, it is.” Dean frowns. “He’d probably forget I  _ existed  _ if he didn’t have Bobby there to remind him.”

Ellen sighs.

_ “I  _ know that you’re ready for this, Dean.” She points out, tone gentle. “You’re going to make a great Prince, and an even better King, someday.”

“Right.” Dean says, a bitter taste forming in his mouth.

“I mean it, Dean.” Ellen says, her tone still level and soothing. “And for now, you’re going to wait outside of the main hall with me, and they’ll call you in, when it’s time.”

“If you wait out here, you won’t be able to see it—” Dean frowns.

“That’s okay,” Ellen shakes her head. “You need the company.”

“But—”

“I’d rather that you felt calm, Dean.”

“I’d feel calmer if I knew you were there in the audience, though...” Dean replies honestly, and much to his own embarrassment, his voice cracks at this thought.

“Then I’ll slip in.” Ellen smiles gently as she speaks to Dean, expression maternal and soft as the earth after a light rainfall. “After you’ve gone in, before they do the actual crowning bit. And every time you feel nervous, you can glance to the corner of the hall, and I’ll be there, supporting you.”

Dean doesn’t think he can even say a thank you. Instead, he pulls Ellen tight into his arms, and Ellen laughs, squeezing him firmly… For a moment, it feels like Dean has a mother and that he’s cared for and that he matters, and he doesn’t ever want it to end.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” He laughs, the sound so honest it is hollow in his own ears.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Dean.”

Dean smiles into the hug, and when the huge doors to the main hall are swung open, Ellen has almost made him feel calm again. Almost. And then Dean looks at the assembly, and he takes a step forward into the hall, and he thinks that he’s going to be sick—as in, physically and literally  _ sick  _ on the paved floor. He doesn’t even realise when he’s made it all the way up to his father’s throne; which John stands in front of looking regal and formal and terrifying.

Dean’s father smiles down at Dean, the motion so small it almost isn’t there, as Dean kneels in front of him. Dean thinks that it’s meant to be a reassuring smile, but it isn’t a very good one if this is the case—it looks more pained than anything else, and is actually a pretty accurate reflection of how Dean himself is feeling, at this moment.

Dean thinks of Ellen in an attempt to remain calm. Ellen who is in the corner of the hall, her eyes trained on Dean, wishing him to do well. Ellen who loves Dean like a mother would her son, and who Dean couldn’t be more grateful he has in his life.

Along with this, Dean has Bobby—Bobby who constantly supports Dean; who believes in Dean, who thinks him able to succeed in things Dean wouldn’t normally bring himself to  _ attempt;  _ Bobby who recognises him as an adult more than any of the other people in Dean’s life right now; Bobby who actually laughs at Dean’s sarcastic comments over dinner and will wink at Dean playfully as he makes his own. Bobby who may as well be an uncle to Dean, or another father—a warmer, kinder, more  _ real  _ father—and Dean has Sammy; Sammy who looks up to Dean and loves Dean, and who Dean loves fiercely in return, even if saying it out loud would embarrass the soon-to-be-Prince beyond belief. Dean would lay down his life for Sammy. Without a second thought.

Dean has Jo, too, the closest thing to a friend outside of his family—even if she is several years younger than him. Mature, funny Jo who believes Dean to be so capable that she doesn’t even feel the need to  _ say  _ it, not like everybody else. Dean has all these people—they’re all watching him, wishing him to do well; to  _ not  _ make an idiot out of himself—and, Dean reminds himself, they’ll love him even if he does.

It’s infinitely reassuring listing all these people; Dean does it over and over again, balling his hands into fists to stop them from trembling, but by the third time he’s named all the people wishing him to do well in the crowd, his hands have steadied out almost completely. He keeps them tightly fisted however, worrying at his lip until he can taste iron in his mouth, and he barely even hears his father actually  _ crowning _ him. He only realises when he feels the heavy metal of the crown placed, cold, upon his forehead, when he hears his father’s instruction to rise, and he does so—if a little shakily. He’s still feeling like he could be sick, yet at the same time, his body is flooding with a seeping sense of relief and he exhales heavily and swallows, because it’s  _ so nearly over,  _ now.

He turns to face the crowd—he thanks the powers that be that he actually  _ rehearsed  _ this bit—and says some bullshit line, thanking his father, and the people; and his eyes are scanning the hall for Ellen, but then his breath catches in his throat, and he manages to stammer out the last word of his paragraph before all language fails him.

Because he can see a pair of brilliant, shimmering blue eyes locked on his own.

And he  _ knows _ them.

The hall around him is exploding in cheers; people are standing up from where they have been sitting, but the noise sounds blurred in Dean’s head—much louder than this, is the sound of his own blood, rushing around his skull—because he can see a pair of eyes like ice on water and they’re shattering into his own soul, and he can see dark, messy hair and jet wings; each coal feather dipped in brilliant azure—

And the owner of these feathers is applauding and beaming at Dean, his eyes crinkling at their corners, and Dean thinks he’s either forgotten how to stand or how to breathe, or maybe even both, and he couldn’t be more thankful for the fact that his father comes to his side and wraps his arm around him in a show of affection; because it’s enough to snap Dean out of his daze.

_ Castiel. _

People come and kneel at Dean’s feet after this, wishing him well—noblemen and allies from the other Kingdoms, knights and apparent family members, but Dean has his eyes fixed on one individual; he almost completely forgets how uncomfortable the whole ordeal is making him.

When Castiel approaches Dean to bow, Dean forgets to breathe again.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel smiles, and Dean blinks hard, before grinning and stammering out something that even  _ he  _ doesn’t understand. “Sorry, what was that?” Castiel laughs, and Dean swallows, thickly.

The Angel has grown since the last time Dean saw him. Dean has, too, and now they are closer to the same height than they were a year ago—Dean thinks that in a few months, he may even be taller than Castiel.

The Angel’s wings have grown, too. They’re huge now; just like Castiel’s brother’s, and are thicker and more muscular than they were the last time Dean saw them. They touch the floor of the castle despite the fact that they are folded, and each one is thicker and wider that two men lined up next to each other.

Castiel’s face has filled out more, too. Dean notes how much more defined it is; the raise in Castiel’s cheekbones, the heaviness of Castiel’s jaw, the pointed focus of all his features, the slight worry lines around his face that have something warm and bright pulsating with unequivocal affection inside of Dean.

His hair is still the same, though—apparently untameable, as it always was—and his eyes still make Dean feel as though the rest of the world doesn’t exist; that there is only him and Castiel, and that Castiel is the most beautiful creature that Dean has ever seen.

“Hi—Hi, Cas—I’ve um, I’ve—what are you doing here? Not that I’m complaining, of course, I just—” Dean’s face heats. Fuck, he hates himself.

“I’m here for your coronation of course, Dean,” Castiel smiles. The sound of Dean’s name on Castiel’s lips is more wonderful than any music Dean has heard for the past year.

“How long are you staying for?” Dean stammers out.

“I’m not quite sure—Michael, who came with me, will need to return to the Kingdom shortly—”

“—Oh, right, of course,” Dean nods furiously, his heart sinking.

“—But I don’t have to return so soon,” Castiel finishes. Dean takes a moment to process this.

“—Wait, really? So you could stay? I mean, could you stay? Would you want that? Would that be okay? Would—”

“Dean, get a move on,” John sighs. Dean looks up at his father. “The boy can stay.” He rubs his temples, closing his eyes.

Dean grins and turns back to Castiel.

“Would you want to?”

“I would like that very much, Dean.”

“We have a lot to catch up on.”

“We do,” Castiel agrees, his lips twitching upwards. It sets knots inside of Dean’s stomach.

“I got your letters—” Dean stammers.

“And I got yours,” Castiel replies, amusement curling at his features.

“Thank you for writing. And for the birthday present—”

“I thank you for writing, too. And for your many gifts. I’ve read all of them.”

“And you liked them?” Dean sounds mortifyingly hopeful and excited, but he hardly even cares.

“Of course, Dean. Thank you very much.”

“I’m glad,” Dean beams, “And it wasn’t a problem, really, I—”

John coughs once into his fist.

“—I missed you,” Dean says before thinking, and Castiel’s expression turns gentle, cheeks still pinned up in a subtle smile.

“And I missed you,” He replies. Dean’s face heats, although he has no idea why.

“I’ll see you later?” He asks as Castiel begins to move on.

“I certainly hope so,” Castiel replies, his lips twitching upwards.

Dean feels lightheaded when the Angel walks away.

He turns back to the crowd of people, all wishing to congratulate Dean, and falters slightly when he sees Castiel’s oldest brother.

“Hello, Prince Dean,” Michael greets. Dean wants to take a step back instead of shaking the man’s—or, indeed, Angel’s—hand, but he refrains.

“Um—Hello, Your Majesty,” Dean bows his head, and he wants to look away, but Michael smiles in a way that Dean assumes is meant to be reassuring.

The Angel looks more troubled than he did before; and more tired. Dean recognises the look; his father has worn it almost every day for the past fourteen years.

Michael’s eyes are tired and the lines forming underneath them tell Dean he’s had more sleepless nights than otherwise. Dean wonders why. He knows that since the last visit, the Angels have joined in the war with the Demons—and although he understands from Castiel that Michael sees war as needless violence; he doesn’t get why it would have _quite_ _such_ an effect on him. 

And then, there’s the fact that Michael’s face seems more set; there is a sadness and an exhaustion rising from his eyes that makes Dean feel despondent just  _ looking  _ at.

“Congratulations, on today,” The High King wishes gently. “You’ll make an excellent Prince, I’m certain.”

“Uh—Thanks.” Dean swallows hard. “Thank you for coming, too.”

“Castiel was rather adamant when he found out,” Michael laughs. Somehow, the sound rumbles with both thunder and warmth. Dean’s face heats in response.

Michael still has the calm, clipped manner of speaking as he did when Dean last saw him; but this time around it sounds a little more unnatural, like the Angel has to think to speak that way rather than doing it on instinct as before.

“I think he’s missed you a great deal,” Michael says, voice quiet and suddenly thoughtful, as though he is confiding in Dean, who ducks his head, his face too pink for words. Yet joy is rising quickly in his system; he can’t get over the fact that  _ Cas has missed him, Cas has actually missed him,  _ and a beam spreads across his face faster than he is able to bite down on it.

“I’ve missed him, too.” Dean stammers, looking up again. Michael smiles in response—although his eyes seem to stay a little too sad for Dean to think that it’s genuine—and bows, before walking away.

After everyone has greeted Dean, Dean scans the hall furiously for Castiel again, but he can’t see him anywhere.

“Dean, I’m so proud of you!” Ellen beams, making Dean jump in surprise as she pulls him in for a tight hug.

“Did you know?” Dean asks, voice sounding nearly furious with his desperate haste. “Did you know he was coming?”

Ellen laughs.

“Are you talking about the Angel, Castiel?”

“Yes—did you know? You knew, didn’t you?—Of course  _ you  _ knew!—Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise, of course,” Ellen smiles warmly, the sun rising in her smile, her tone almost as excited as Dean’s. “Is that alright?”

“Yeah, I just,” Dean stammers, and he doesn’t know what to think, but he feels _so_ _happy,_ which is a welcome change to things. “Thank you. Thank you, Ellen, for everything. Thank you, _thank you._ ”

“That’s alright, sweetie,” Ellen beams, hugging Dean again, her touch filling Dean with a strange, glowing kind of feeling. “And you were amazing today. Really great. I’m so proud of you.”

“I only had to kneel and wait for a crown to be put on my head, Ellen,” Dean laughs, but his face heats.

“But I know how scared you were feeling about it. And you did amazingly.”

“Thank you.” Dean feels his ears go pink. “—Do you—Do you know where he is, Ellen?” Dean asks as Ellen pulls back from the hug and squeezes Dean’s shoulders.

“I said he should wait for you up in your quarters. He’s there now.”

Dean doesn’t even think to reply or thank Ellen again. He just grins and sprints up the stairs, his feet pounding on the stone in hollow, cold, slapping noises—he tears down corridors and through hallways—he nearly runs into several servants, and all he can do is shout a hurried  _ “Sorry!”  _ as he continues to dash and weave his way to his chambers.

And then he flings the door open, and Castiel is stood in the middle of the room, looking awkward and nervous, as though he feels really quite out of place, just as he always did, and Dean beams and doesn’t think before pulling Cas’s body tight against his own.

“Cas!” Dean’s voice is muffled into the Angel’s neck.

“Dean,” Castiel laughs, and Dean can feel it rumbling in Cas’s chest; he presses himself closer against Cas’s body and doesn’t even stop himself closing his eyes and drinking up the feeling of Castiel’s body against his own.

“I’ve missed you so much.” Dean chokes.

“And I’ve missed you.” Castiel replies; and Dean doesn’t pull away, still, because he simply doesn’t want to. He wants to stay like this forever. He likes the way that Castiel feels in his arms, he likes the way that  _ he  _ feels in Castiel’s arms; so familiar and so different and it seems like  _ home  _ after months and months and  _ months  _ of being away.

“Congratulations on today,” Castiel laughs, probably at the fact that Dean is still clinging onto him so tightly, like he is a ship and Cas’s body is his anchor. “You did very well.”

Dean repeats what he said to Ellen, what feels like moments earlier, to Castiel; about it not being a big deal, but the Angel doesn’t allow it.

“You did very well, Dean,” He squeezes tightly, and Dean closes his eyes again.

After the forced, necessary cordiality of their reunion in the Main Hall, it feels good to share this unadulterated intimacy within the confines and privacy of Dean’s bedroom.

“When I saw you my mind went  _ totally  _ blank,” He laughs, and he feels Castiel’s warm breath against his neck as the Angel laughs, too.

“I could sort of tell,” He admits. “I didn’t mean to surprise you, though, so I’m sorry.”

“It was a good sort of surprise,” Dean confesses. “I had no idea you were coming!” He pulls back now, still holding on to Cas’s arms, and the Angel hums placidly and shrugs.

“Ellen requested that I keep it quiet.”

“Figures,” Dean laughs. “Thank you so much for coming.” He feels his eyes crinkle at their corners.

“That’s okay,” Castiel ducks his head. “I’ve missed you a lot.”

“I missed you, too.”

“You’ve said,” Castiel chuckles, his hands squeezing Dean’s shoulders affectionately.

“How long are you going to stay for?” Dean asks, and he prays that it’s a while.

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits. “Longer than last time, I hope—I mean, if that’s okay.”

“That’d be great, Cas—it’d be more than okay.”

“Thank you,” Castiel smiles. “You look different...” He says thoughtfully, looking Dean up and down, and Dean has to laugh at this, too.

“So do you,” Dean chuckles. “Your wings are huge, now!”

Castiel blushes furiously.

“—Thank you—” He stammers.

“Sorry, does that mean something different, for Angels?” Dean asks. “I didn’t mean to be creepy, I just—”

“No, it’s a compliment,” Castiel smiles. “A big one. Thank you.”

“You said that an Angel’s wings say how good they are in battle?”

“I did,” Castiel nods, and his lips twitch upwards.

“So you think you could still beat me in a fight?” Dean grins, and Castiel pushes him playfully.

“I  _ know _ I could,” He corrects.

“We’ll see,” Dean laughs. “I’ve been practicing. We have a lot to catch up on!”

“We do,” Castiel agrees.

“D’you wanna just sit and chat, for a bit?” Dean asks.

“Yes, I’d like that,” Castiel confirms. His eyes regard Dean with a new and unfamiliar kind of gentleness.

Dean seats himself on his bed and indicates for Castiel to sit next to him, but the Angel hesitates for a moment that puts Dean in a feeling of unease, before he sits, too.

“Michael told me you went away to fight in the war against Dione again, in those months that you were away,” Castiel says, and how the  _ fuck  _ did Cas’s brother know  _ that?!  _ “Why did you do that? And why did you not tell me?”

Dean bites his lip. Guilt flares through him like a forestfire.

“I don’t know,” He admits, honestly. “I guess I just thought—I thought you’d worry, and I didn’t want that.”

“Of course I would have worried, Dean. I care about you.”

And Castiel’s words hit Dean like a boulder flung at his chest by catapault. All the air is pushed out of his system, and Dean looks up at Castiel, because he can’t be telling the truth, right now—but all Dean sees in Castiel’s eyes is honesty and concern, and Dean looks away, because he doesn’t deserve this; it’s too much for him and his soul, already blackened by life, despite his youth.

“I’m sorry—”

Castiel’s hand slips into his. Dean stops talking.

“I thought you’d decided that you hated war?”

And Dean is glad for the change of subject, except he isn’t; because he wants Castiel to tell him he matters again, even if the words feels like a lie in Dean’s ears.

“I did—and I do.”

“So, what changed?” Castiel frowns.

“Nothing.” Dean shrugs, looking away from the intensity of Cas’s gaze.

“Then why did you go?”

“I—I suppose because I wanted to make my father proud.”

Castiel’s eyes soften.

“I know that’s wrong…” Dean mumbles, but Castiel’s hands cup his face, and Dean looks up at Castiel. Something like hope rises in his heart.

“It’s not wrong, Dean,” Castiel says, softly. “It’s understandable. Human, even.” His thumb rests upon Dean’s chin as he speaks.

“So Angels wouldn’t get up to that kind of bullshit?”

“I didn’t mean that—though probably not, no. But Angels being so isolated from themselves—it’s not a good thing.”

“Sometimes you talk about Angels like you aren’t one.” Dean’s lips twitch upwards with this observation.

“Sometimes I don’t  _ feel  _ like one…” Castiel admits, and he glances at Dean and smiles gently. “How was it? Were you okay?”

“What?”

“You going back to war.”

“It was okay…” Dean bites his lip.

“Your nightmares haven’t returned?”

“They never left,” Dean confesses.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Castiel replies honestly, a sadness settling in his eyes. “Did you fighting again make them any worse?”

“Yeah,” Dean confesses. “But not as bad as I thought it’d make them.”

“That’s something.” Castiel nods, though an unconvinced frown twists across his face. There is silence for a moment. “I wish you hadn’t gone, Dean,” The Angel confides, his voice so quiet it barely interrupts the stillness.

“Sorry,” Dean says again. He looks down.

“I loved the books you sent me—the first one was my favourite.” Castiel changes the subject, his voice gentle. Dean looks up again.

“The one that was my mother’s favourite?”

“Yes, that one,” Castiel smiles. “Have you read it?”

“Not yet,” Dean shakes his head. “I always meant to. But I was always kind of scared to.”

“And why is that?”

“I have so few pieces of her left—and I was scared that if I didn’t like it, I’d just have one less,” Dean explains. He feels embarrassment curl his skin. “That sounds really dumb.” He ducks his head.

“No, not at all.” Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand. “—But you shouldn’t be afraid of that. You’d love it.”

Dean bites his lip.

“And you really liked it?” He asks. Castiel smiles warmly.

“It’s my new favourite.”

Dean’s ears heat. He doesn’t look away.

They talk in this way for a while. Dean thinks he confesses how much he’s missed Cas about a hundred times, but he can’t stop. Words spill out of his mouth without a second thought whenever Castiel is around. They sit on Dean’s bed, Cas’s legs drawn up beneath him.

“Do you want to carry on learning to ride? Dean asks, at one point in the conversation.

“Yes, please.” Castiel smiles. It’s like watching the sun rise. 

“Brilliant,” Dean’s grin spreads across his face before he can stop it. “There’s been a lot of storms, lately—and one of them was pretty strong and knocked down a few trees in the forest—some of them are on me and Sam’s usual riding path—so we’ll have to teach you how to get your horse to jump over them, before we go that way.”

“Okay,” Castiel nods. “Is that very hard?”

“I guess, a little,” Dean admits. “But we’ve got more time than we had last time, so we might be able to get you to do it. We’ll have to remind you of a bunch of old stuff though; ‘cause you’ll have probably forgotten a lot. Not that it’s your fault, or anything—just ‘cause you’ll be out of practice…”

“That’s okay, Dean, I understand.” Castiel’s expression is so warm and affectionate that Dean has to keep glancing away from it. “And I look forward to riding, again. I’ve missed it.”

Dean smiles, but he wishes Cas would say that he’s missed  _ him  _ more than the Angel has already.

“How’ve you been, Cas?” He asks, because it’s easier than asking Castiel if he still feels  _ anything  _ for Dean.

“I’ve been well, I think.” Castiel shrugs.

“Michael didn’t look too good when I saw him today.”

“No, I don’t think he’s very well…” Castiel frowns thoughtfully.

“How long has he been like that?” Dean asks.

“For almost the year since we saw each other last,” Castiel answers. He presses his lips into a thin line. “I thought it was the fact that we joined the Demon-Human war, to begin with, but I’m starting to think that it  _ can’t  _ just be that.”

Dean nods.

“There’s something more?”

“There must be,” Castiel seems troubled, like a storm flickers behind his eyes. 

“So what do you think it is?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know.” Castiel shakes his head sadly. “He won’t tell me. Nobody tells me anything.”

Dean bites his lip.

“Are you still lonely in the castle?” He asks.

“No,” Castiel smiles, “Not as much. Samandriel and I speak often, and I train more often too, and with my lessons, there is very little time left over to be lonely.”

“Samandriel?” Dean asks. He feels a cold bite of jealousy flash through him.

“Yes, I believe I’ve told you about him, before. He’s one of the servants, at the castle.”

“Oh, okay…” Dean nods. He swallows hard.

“Your letters have been keeping me company, too.” Castiel adds warmly, and Dean’s lips twitch into a shy smile again. “I spend many of my hours in the palace thinking about your next reply to whatever I have sent off, last.”

“I’m glad.” He responds, and it’s only half true, really, because he’s so much  _ more  _ than just glad. Something happy and soft streaks through him at the thought that Castiel actually  _ waits  _ for Dean’s letters, that he looks forward to them, that they spread a smile across Castiel’s face.

“And what about mine, to you?” Castiel asks.

“I’ve loved getting them, Cas,” Dean beams, but he feels the expression falter, because maybe that reply was just a little  _ too  _ honest—yet before he can think to correct himself, Cas has pulled him in for a hug again.

“As much as I love my home, I greatly dislike having to go without talking to you.” Castiel states honestly, and Dean bites his lip and thanks the heavens that Castiel can’t see how red he’s going. “There are few things I enjoy more than your company.”

“What things do you enjoy more, then?” Dean asks, frowning, and he’s trying not to sound  _ too  _ jealous, but if he’s honest he’s failing miserably.

Castiel laughs softly.

“Probably time with my family—but you probably prefer time with Sam, don’t you?”

Dean falls quiet, because he loves Sam more than anything; but his time with Castiel is precious, is limited, and his time with Sam feels boundless.

“He doesn’t spend most of his time  _ weeks _ of travel away from me.” Dean decides to say, eventually.

“Well, remember that Anna and Gabriel live far away from me, too.”

“Right.” Dean nods. He doesn’t know why he feels so jealous.

“You sound unhappy.” Castiel frowns.

“I’m fine.” Dean bites his lip.

There is a silence for a few moments—although it feels achingly long to Dean.

“Don’t think I haven’t missed you, Dean.” Castiel says quietly. “I really have.”

Dean bites his lip and looks down.

_ Probably not as much as I’ve missed you. _

He doesn’t say that. He can’t say anything like that to Castiel. Even thinking it hurts something inside of Dean. He doesn’t want to think about how attached he is to the Angel.

“Tonight, shall we go down to the courtyard that we always used to sit in?” Dean asks, and something close to relief sweeps across Cas’s features.

“I’d like that, Dean.”

After all this, Ellen comes in to tell the two of them that lunch is ready. They head down to the dining hall together—they aren’t holding hands, but Dean feels Castiel’s brush softly against his every now and then. And it’s enough… But then, it really isn’t.

Sammy talks Cas’s ears off over lunch. Dean doesn’t bother telling his brother to shut up because he’s grown so used to silence at the table; because Dean thinks that John scares Sammy out of speaking most of the time, and of course John rarely talks, himself.

So Sam’s chatter is a welcome change.

Dean just wishes he didn’t feel so damn jealous of the attention his brother is getting off the Angel.

Dean’s father actually eats with them, and even asks Castiel a few questions, which Dean is hugely thankful for, because there was a time when John wouldn’t have let an Angel sit at his dinner table, let alone actually  _ speak  _ to them.

After lunch, Dean has training, which Castiel says that he’s not in the mood for, wearied as he is by travel. And Dean’s heart sinks a little more.

By dinner time, it feels like he and the Angel have barely spent any time together, and this isn’t anything like what Dean had imagined—or, more appropriately,  _ hoped— _ Castiel’s next visit to the kingdom would be like.

Dean is sitting despondently on his bed when Castiel knocks at his door.

“Dean?” He asks gently. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dean lies again, because he doesn’t think he and Cas are the same as they used to be; so he doesn’t know if he can bring himself to be honest with the dark haired Angel.

“You don’t need to lie to me, Dean—”

“I kind of do, Cas, no offense.”

“What makes you say that?” Castiel frowns, face twisting in upset at the harshness of Dean’s words.

The Human Prince sighs.

“We’re not the same as we were.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

Dean looks at his hands.

“Neither do I,” He replies honestly.

Castiel’s eyes flit over to Dean’s windows.

“You were right,” He says after a pause, and Dean doesn’t have any idea what he means, and there was a time when he’d smile affectionately at Castiel’s frankly shitty social skills, but he doesn’t now—he just feels immensely frustrated and tired and upset. “I  _ can _ see the mountains from here.”

Why the fuck does Cas feel the need to say this?!

“You didn’t notice before?” Dean asks.

“I was concentrating on something else…” Castiel admits. His lips twitch upwards. He carries on staring out the windows.

“What?” Dean asks, frowning.

Castiel’s eyes flicker back to Dean’s face.

“You,” He titters, as though this answer should have been obvious.

Dean is convinced his face sets on fire.

“I looked out my window every morning and evening and thought of you,” Castiel smiles, and he walks over to Dean’s windows, now. “Just as I promised I would.”

“—I did, too—” Dean scrambles up to his feet and stands next to Castiel.

“Why aren’t we the same as we used to be?” Castiel asks. He turns to Dean, and he isn’t smiling, any more. His eyes are sad.

“—I don’t—” Dean stammers. “I guess—we aren’t doing the stuff we used to, you know? And—”

“I didn’t train with you today, Dean, because I was tired from travel. It wasn’t meant to be anything personal.”

“—No, I know, I just—”

“And I’ll happily train with you tomorrow. And go riding—and we could sit in the library as we used to. Or you could try to teach me card games again.”

“Cas—”

“What is it?”

“—It’s just—it’s still not the same—‘cause it’s not  _ everything  _ we used to do, everything we used to be—And I get that you might not want to—”

“What else did we used to do?” Castiel asks, frowning, eyes flitting down to Dean’s lips and then realisation dawns on his face. Dean’s pulse flutters in his neck. “—Oh.” The Angel says, and Dean looks down, because his face has never been so  _ red _ , but then Cas takes a step towards him, and he feels Castiel’s breath hot against his skin, and now Dean can’t breathe, and he can’t look up, either.

But Castiel doesn’t seem to care.

Dean feels Cas graze his lips softly against his neck, and the air is pushed out of Dean’s lungs all over again; and he’s lost, and Castiel is pressing and dragging kisses up his skin, and Dean turns his head to give Castiel more room because this feels  _ good _ , and  _ oh yes he wants more of that,  _ but the Angel presses his lips hard onto Dean’s jaw and in the next moment his mouth is against Dean’s, and Dean’s hands move up to Cas’s hair without even realising; and the world is falling, falling all around them; all is turning to dust.

Castiel pulls back, corners of his mouth lifted into a smile like the sunrise. Dean whines into the inches of ether between them, missing Cas’s lips against his.

“I’ve missed this,” Castiel mumbles, and Dean only hums in reply. “I didn’t know if you’d want to—so I didn’t, before.”

Dean finally opens his eyes to look at the Angel.

Castiel’s pale-blues are cracking Dean’s body apart, so intense is his gaze on Dean’s skin. The Human swallows thickly before replying.

“The castle feels too big without you,” Dean states. His voice sounds like there is a fire in his throat.

Castiel brushes his nose against Dean’s.

“One day, you should visit me in my home,” He says thoughtfully.

“I’d like that,” Dean nods, hardly thinking.

They kiss again, a barely there, delicate, sweet kiss that lingers for a moment of blissful gold, but falls just short of satisfying Dean.

“I came here to ask if you still wanted to come to the courtyard,” Castiel chuckles softly. “I think I got slightly side-tracked.”

“I’m glad you did,” Dean replies honestly, without thinking. The Angel smiles and kisses Dean again. Dean’s eyes flutter closed and he doesn’t open them when Castiel pulls back.

Dean and Castiel walk there in silence. It isn’t a bad one, this time. Dean drinks up Castiel’s presence beside him.

They sit under the dimming sky together, just as they used to. Dean sits close enough to Cas that their shoulders are touching. Castiel wraps his wing round the other side of Dean’s body; Dean closes his eyes in response to the action because he doesn’t think he’s ever had such an overwhelming feeling of  _ everything is okay  _ in his life. Or, at least, not since his mother died.

He asks Castiel to tell him a story that he was told, as a child, and Castiel tells him a little Angel—Castiel calls her a fledgling, and Dean assumes this is a pet name Angels give to their young ones—who stumbled upon a dying phoenix, healed him, and tamed him.

“The young Angel dwelt in the beautiful Kingdom of Tyrzah, and had lost her parents at a young age,” Castiel explains, “And she had never been shown love, before—”

“I thought Angels didn’t believe in love,” Dean frowns, but Castiel hushes him.

“We do, Dean, we just don’t believe in feeling as violently or romantically as you Humans,” Castiel replies. “And don’t interrupt.”

“Sorry,” Dean replies sheepishly.

“—Anyway, because of her parents’ deaths, this girl had never been shown love, only loneliness. She had spent her life on the streets of the city, begging for money, for food; yet she was rarely treated with any kindness despite the girl’s own unselfish nature. Abra in all her grace sent down the bird to help the girl, sent it down injured, so the girl could prove her worth through tending it to strength again. The phoenix, being kind in nature and grateful to the fledgling for saving its life, stole bread and water for the girl, so that she never went hungry again.

“Years later, she had only one friend: this bird, bright red and gold as the sun. Abra allowed the little girl to play with fire without harming herself, so that she could pet the bird without being burnt. The creature’s burning kept her warm, even on the coldest of nights, high in the mountains where she dwelt. The two became closer and closer friends—the girl knew both kindness and love for the first time; and as for the bird, he came to know companionship and health. You must understand, Dean,” Castiel stops, breaking suddenly out of his storytelling voice, “that phoenixes are fabled to be very intelligent, compassionate creatures in Angel lore. As intelligent as we are, some say more so.

“Anyway—there came a time where an older Angel, an  _ Elohim _ , saw the bird and wanted it for himself. He was a greedy, selfish man, whose heart had been turned to stone by the love of money long ago, and he offered her a great sum for the creature, but the little girl refused—saying that its companionship was more valuable to her than any amount of his gold. With the bird, everything was provided for the little girl that she had any need of; enough food and drink to live, kinship and companionship to live happily—and the little girl knew that his gold coins could not buy another friend like her phoenix. Outraged—the Elohim was not used to being said no to—he returned home and hatched a plan to steal the beast from her, so greedy and selfish was the man.

“However, when he tried to do so, his hands were scorched by the phoenix’s feathers, which were like tongues of the fire licking at his skin. This should have turned him away; though instead of giving up, the Elohim was more furious than ever. Two times over he had not obtained what he felt he most desired: the golden bird that shone bright as the sun—and now two times over he wanted revenge for his misfortune.

“One moon later, he returned in the dead of night to the street corner where the girl slept, wearing a thick pair of iron and leather gloves bought from the local blacksmith, and picked the bird out of her arms without gaining the slightest burn. He clamped his fingers over its beak before it could cry out for its friend, and when the girl awoke, she found that her only companion had been taken from her.

“And Abra, more furious than the Elohim had been when he had been refused; seeing who had stolen the Goddess’s gift to the poor orphaned child and taken it for himself; granted the young girl another gift: She transformed the girl into a new flaming bird, blue as the flames at the very base of the hottest fires that feed of not wood, but  _ coal  _ or oil, and the girl flew into the Elohim’s house, catching it ablaze. She pecked at the thin, metal chains binding her friend’s feet with a beak composed of bronze, until the chains fell apart, and she and the phoenix flew out of the home while the Elohim who was trapped inside by the flames, begging for mercy. But neither she nor her friend would have been able to help him even if they had wanted to: they had no hands to help him; and so the Angel was burnt by the flames he had so desperately desired to possess and master.

“Abra offered to turn the girl back into an Angel, but the fledgling requested not to; and she and the phoenix flew out into the scorching desert beyond Tyrzah, where they burnt together, shining as the sun, for the rest of their lives.”

Castiel finishes, and Dean frowns again.

“What does that mean?” He asks.

“What do  _ you _ think it means?” Castiel smiles.

“I’m guessing there’s a moral lesson in there—like, don’t be a dick to poor orphaned girls and steal their pets, or something, but I suppose that’s a bit  _ too _ obvious to be the meaning behind it.”

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards and he huffs out an amused breath.

“You’ve certainly divulged one moral of the story, yes.”

“So, what are the others?” Dean asks.

“The phoenix represents love. When the Elohim steals the bird, he steals the only love our protagonist has been able to experience in her life—the love that furthermore had been a gift from  _ Abra _ herself. To steal it is now two times disdainful. The Elohim is moreover not entitled to this love, which is why he is punished for taking it. And the end of the story—the two birds flying off together—that represents freedom, because if you love something—”

“—You set it free” Dean finishes.

“Yes,” Castiel nods. “—And it sets  _ you  _ free.”

“So the story’s about bestiality?” Dean grins.

“No, Dean,” Castiel wrinkles his nose. “That’s disgusting. And it’s all a metaphor.”

“The Angel girl was in love with a bird,” Dean laughs. “—It could be worse, though—at least she has feathers, too.”

“The type of love they felt is never specified; although I think we can assume that it’s purely platonic.” Castiel sighs at Dean’s amusement, rubbing his face. “And that’s not all there is to the story—it’s also one of the stories used to explain why it is some Angels can control fire.”

“Right,” Dean nods. “Are there any other stories explaining Angel powers?”

“Several,” Castiel nods. “But before I tell you any, you need to tell me one of your Human tales.”

Dean bites his lip.

Almost all the stories Dean was told as a child were told by his mother, and they were all about Angels. Castiel certainly won’t want to hear a story of his own biology, or his own culture.

Dean says as much.

“There  _ must _ be another story you know.”

Dean thinks for a while.

Dean’s father stopped telling Dean stories after Mary’s death. But there is one, now he thinks of it. It’s special.

Dean tells it.

He remembers his father whispering it to him late at night, a warm smile on his face as he sat on Dean’s bed, Dean staring up at the King from where he lay; thinking about how much he wanted to be  _ just like his father  _ when he was older. Needless to say, times have changed.

But the story still rouses something delicate inside Dean's chest that traces intricate bronze patterns through him and forces him to take stammering breaths.

When he finishes the story Dean hears his voice crack.

“Who was that about?” Castiel asks, after a silence.

“My mother and father,” Dean answers. The fire is back in his throat. “It’s the story of how my parents met.” Dean pauses again. “How they fell in love.”

“Your father must miss her very much.”

“He does…” Dean nods. He thinks of John’s drinking, of his intentness on revenge, of the hollowed out look that has fallen into his eyes.

“You must miss her, too.”

“I do,” Dean nods. His voice barely lasts to the end of the sentence.

Castiel’s hand slips into Dean’s. He doesn’t say anything more. Dean appreciates it.

Dean realises that he has fallen asleep on Castiel’s shoulder a while later. He doesn’t know how long for.

“—Sorry,” He blushes furiously; and he thanks whoever is looking out for him up there that it’s too dark for Castiel to be able to see this. “I must’ve dropped off.”

“Yes,” Castiel nods. “You did.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Dean asks, frowning.

“I didn’t want to,” Castiel shrugs. “It felt nice. And you seemed so content.”

Dean’s face heats again.

“Do you want to stay out here?” He asks. “We could watch the dawn, together.”

“Wouldn’t we be very tired by the end of that?” Castiel asks. He frowns in confusion at Dean.

“Yes,” Dean admits, “But not if we fell asleep between now and then.”

“Okay,” Castiel nods. A smile tugs at his lips. “I’d like that.”

Dean feels something happy and bright swell inside of him.

He wants to say something in reply, but he bites his tongue, and tells Castiel to lie back on the grass.

“If you lie like that, I’m gonna be resting on your wing,” He says to Castiel.

“That’s alright,” Castiel shrugs, smiling.

“It won’t hurt, or be uncomfortable, or anything?” Dean asks.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “And I’ll tell you if it is.”

The Angel spreads his wing out, more, and Dean traces his fingertips through the downy feathers, before realising what it is he’s doing.

“—Sorry—” He mumbles, his hand snapping back to his own body.

“That’s okay,” Castiel replies. “I wouldn’t have said that you could lie on my wing if I wasn’t okay with you touching them.”

Dean bites his lip, and tries to smile back at Castiel, but something is aching inside of him, and it hurts his heart. He leans back, until his head is resting in the curve of Castiel’s wing. It takes him by surprise when Cas folds the limb over Dean’s body, covering him like it’s a blanket to keep his body warm.

Dean’s smile is breathless.

He closes his eyes and imagines that he and Castiel are lying together for some other reason than to watch the sky together. Maybe one day, Castiel will want to lie next to Dean out of a blossoming warmth in his heart that he feels toward the Human. Maybe.

Maybe that’s what he’s doing now?

It comes as a surprise when the Angel tangles his fingers with Dean’s. And it gets easier for Dean to imagine that maybe; he means something to the Angel. Something important.

Dean falls asleep with an Angel’s wing wrapped around his body, and the palm of an Angel’s hand pressed flat against his own, the sky cold and glittering and black. He thinks, absently, before his mind is dragged under sleep’s tides all but completely, that this is something he would be able to get, every night, if he and Castiel  _ do _ go through with the betrothal. If they do end up married.

He likes the thought more than he cares to admit.

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


Dean wakes up to the brightening sky. The sharp, fresh air of morning fills his lungs. His clothes are wet with dew, but most of his body has remained dry; which he supposes he has Castiel to thank for. The Angel’s wing is still wrapped warmly around Dean’s body, and Dean grazes his fingers against a few of Cas’s brilliant feathers. The Angel next to him stirs slightly.

“Did we miss it?” He asks, voice roughened by sleepiness. Dean wants to curl into the sound, wrap it around himself like it is the only thing left under the stars that matters.

“Not all of it,” Dean smiles. He presses his face into Castiel’s shoulder, without thinking, and is about to pull back and apologise profusely, but the Angel smiles and cards his fingers softly through Dean’s hair. Dean hopes the touch is warmed with as much affection as there  _ seems _ to be at Castiel’s fingertips.

“I feel very damp,” Castiel says distractedly, and Dean can’t stop the affectionate beam Cas’s words set on his lips.

“I think you kept me pretty dry.” He replies, brushing his fingers against Cas’s wing, again. “Sorry that you had to sacrifice your wings for that.”

“They would have gotten wet, anyway,” Castiel smiles amusedly. The bright warmth pulses through Dean again.

“The dawn is very pretty, down here,” The Angel says, after a soft pause in their conversation. “More immediate than the way it seems in Eofor. Here it feels so  _ immersive.”  _ Dean likes the sound of his voice in the morning, sleep roughed and more gravelly than ever.

“I bet the view is better from the mountains,” Dean replies. The sunlight dances in the sky over their heads, setting the low clouds above them on fire in strobes of gold.

“But I don’t get to share that view with you,” Castiel says softly. Dean has to swallow hard.

“And that matters to you?” He asks. The Angel offers him a gentle smile.

_ “You  _ matter to me.” Cas says. He looks at Dean like his eyes hold the secrets to the sky above them and Castiel wants to learn how to fly.

“You’re my best friend, Cas,” Dean says without thinking. Castiel beams and squeezes Dean’s shoulder before Dean has time to reprimand himself for spilling his thoughts so openly out to Castiel; and then Dean remembers—he and Cas used to share everything with each other. And now that the Angel is back, Dean thinks that they’re going back to that, again. The thought makes his insides tremble with something Dean can’t pinpoint.

“And you’re mine.” Castiel replies. Dean’s smile in response is weightless.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean and Cas don’t do anything more than kissing. Dean doesn’t mind that. Kissing Cas stirs something burning and bright underneath his skin, searing his flesh; but Dean loves the innocence of their relationship—whatever this relationship might actually  _ be.  _

They still lie together, holding each other—Dean  _ refuses _ to call it cuddling, no matter how much it feels like that’s exactly what they’re doing—and one of them will sneak into the other’s room most nights, if they manage to avoid being seen by guards. It’s useful that Dean knows all of the passageways in the castle, and where guards regularly patrol, so that he and Cas can wander together uninterrupted.

Dean likes to lead Castiel around the castle at night. He shows Cas all his favourite rooms; the places where moonlight streams through the windows, casting a pale, white light shimmering on the castle’s smooth stone floors so that Hera seems to be made out of silver instead of grey. 

These places are uninterrupted by the daily affairs of the knights or servants or any of Dean’s father’s advisers during these late hours, and suddenly the whole castle becomes bigger and more whimsical, less ugly and dull than it always used to seem, now Castiel is by Dean’s side each twilight.

Sharing this time with Cas has become as much a part of their traditions together as spending evenings in the courtyard did at Castiel’s first visit.

Castiel tells Dean of how he had been so concerned before the two of them had met, that Dean would hate the Angel.  And he laughs and explains how, after their first argument, he had told Michael that he wanted no part in their engagement—and that at the first feast, Castiel changed his mind, and had to rush off to tell Michael not to tell Dean’s father that the engagement was off. 

“So that’s why you ran off, so suddenly?” Dean grins as Castiel explains the story.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms. “Now that I think about it, you must have thought me very strange.”

“A little,” Dean admits, laughing and rubbing his jaw with the flat of his hand. “But only in a good way. It was affectionate, more than anything else. Even then.”

“That’s reassuring,” Castiel chuckles.

Cas still beats Dean in the every one of their duels together. Dean has given up on insisting that Castiel has some kind of unfair advantage—the guy has just been trained not only by a warrior, but an  _ Angel King,  _ at that—and Dean generally accepts defeat graciously; occasionally joking an excuse. But otherwise, he excuses the smug look on Cas’s face, not infrequently pulling Cas down for a kiss while the Angel has him pinned on the ground. This never fails to fluster Cas, which makes Dean grin, and a pulse of smug happiness sears through Dean’s heart at the embarrassed although pleased look the Angel will wear, after these moments. 

Equally often, when Castiel has Dean pinned, he’ll press his body flat against Dean’s, stealing a kiss from the Human’s lips—and these times  _ Dean _ will be the one to blush furiously. 

Occasionally Castiel will go easy on Dean—the size and weight of the Angel, what with the addition of his wings, means that Dean doubts that he will ever _actually_ win a fair fight between them—and in addition to Cas’s wings is his speed and strength and ability, all of which ensure that the Angel is a far better fighter, and that Dean has, essentially, no chance of bettering him. Which is fine, Dean considers, when thinking of how much he likes Cas’s body flush against his in the dirt.

In any case, on the occasions when Castiel decides to play a bit softer, Dean will very often  _ nearly  _ beat the Angel, though he never quite makes it to this. Dean reckons that Castiel is even more competitive than  _ he  _ is, which is really saying something—and normally Dean would absolutely despise having anyone beat him so consistently in combat; yet with Castiel Dean’s pride no longer seems to matter.

Cas is going to be a warrior. That’s what he’s told Dean—it’s why his brother has been training him since Castiel’s childhood, and it’s what Cas will do before he becomes an Archangel like the rest of his siblings.

The pair go swimming in the calmest river of the forest on around the fifth day of Castiel’s stay. Dean tries not to think about how much he likes seeing the Angel without his shirt or tunic on. He is fascinated by the place where wings meet back; where feather turns into firm, smooth skin.  Castiel notices this, and his lips twitch upwards.

“Would you like to take a closer look?” He asks, something smug and warm flickering in his eyes, and Dean has to look down, want and need burning inside his chest as cool water ripples around his legs in the shallows of the pool, sunlight spattering of its dappled surface and painting itself across his freckled skin.

He ought to be embarrassed that he is half naked in broad daylight, that Cas can see the faint outline of his jagged, ugly scars, but he can’t bring himself to care, because  _ Cas  _ doesn’t care.

“Okay…” He shrugs, attempting to remain as composed as possible, which is agonisingly difficult.

He steps forward in the water to where Castiel stands, the stream flowing softly through the submerged feathers of Castiel’s wings. His hand falters over Cas’s skin, and the Angel glances behind him, to Dean, and gives him a warm, reassuring look.

Dean’s hand runs over the rise of Castiel’s back to where his wings form, his fingers cautiously tracing each short feather at the base of his back, before they turn into long, stretching ones further up his wings.

“It’s so weird,” He laughs, “—Good weird.” He adds, quickly, catching the abashed look in Cas’s eyes. “It’s beautiful.  _ They’re  _ beautiful.”

“Thank you...” Castiel laughs.

“It’s just so strange for me to see people with  _ wings,”  _ Dean states, astonished, and Cas chuckles again.

“And it’s strange for me to see you without them,” He chuckles.

“How long do they take to dry off?” Dean asks without thinking. Castiel turns around to face him and takes a step closer.

“It depends,” He shrugs. “Probably not as long as you’d expect. If I fan them out, it takes less time. My feathers are waterproof, so it’s only really a matter of the water running off.”

Dean nods. His fingers wander through the short hairs on Cas’s neck.

“I wish you were here, always,” He mumbles absent-mindedly. Castiel’s expression softens.

“I wish I was, too.”

They kiss again, wet and cool from the river, the sun beating down on them in dappled warmth through the heads of the trees.

Sometimes Dean thinks of how their lives will fit together when they become engaged—and then married. Very poorly, if he is honest with himself—which makes his heart rise up into his throat and his eyes sting with the threat of tears—Dean’s father and Michael have given very few thoughts in regard to how the betrothal and then marriage will actually be carried out. Cas will live for thousands of years. Dean will be lucky if he nearly makes it near to a century. 

And where would they both live? Hera is the only home Dean has ever known, and he is not about to leave Sammy, not even for Castiel; yet he knows how Castiel loves his own home, up in the mountains—he can see it in the affection that fills Cas’s eyes whenever he speaks of his own Kingdom. Would Castiel  _ ever  _ want to leave his own home for Dean?

And will Dean still become the King of Hera? Will Cas still become an Archangel?

Dean loathes their guardians for not thinking to plan this out. He and Cas are from different worlds; and it is starting to show.

Cas has learnt to jump with Shadow now, and does it without too much difficulty. He’s getting better at riding every day, Dean believes, and his horse is growing more and more used to Castiel again.

Occasionally Dean will catch the Angel in Shadow’s paddock, stroking his muzzle softly, speaking in gentle tones to the horse in Enochian. Dean can’t understand the words, but he likes them. He doesn’t interrupt Cas, nor does he let the Angel know of his presence, simply so he can listen to him speak in his own tongue. He likes how Enochian sounds in Cas’s mouth; how much more Cas sounds like  _ himself— _ more than this, he likes the affection laced in Castiel’s tone when he speaks it to his horse. Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever be on the receiving end of such fondness.

Dean’s duties, now that he has become Prince, have been more serious and more time consuming—although Bobby has persuaded John to relax them slightly because of Cas’s stay. Dean knows that when the Angel leaves he will have to go to war again and will be placed as captain of another squadron; or perhaps an even  _ more  _ serious position when he takes up his responsibilities again.

And maybe he won’t be placed in the front against Dione when he returns to the army. Dean feels bile rise in his throat at the thought of having to fight against the Demons, and yet it is not an unreasonable possibility—and John seems to think Dean capable of the task now.

Castiel has been staying at the castle for well over a month when Michael returns to take him home. Dean’s hands tremble with goodbyes.

“When will you next visit?” Dean asks, as Castiel holds him tight against his body.

“Soon,” Castiel promises. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Dean hopes above hope that the Angel is telling the truth.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean was right. He is placed in the Demon war a few months later.

He trembles with fear the whole night before he leaves. He can’t stop. Sobs wrack his body.

He wants to be strong.

He wants Cas beside him.

Cas  _ always _ made him strong.

At some point in the night, someone enters his room, and Dean feels arms wrap around his body tight enough that they feel as though they’re crushing his lungs, but it isn’t enough to bring Dean back to reality.

_ I can’t do it I can’t do it I can’t do it, I’m sorry I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t do this and I’m scared, I’m sorry and I’m terrified and I can’t _

He sobs over and over, until he’s run out of air and he’s left gasping, his chest stuttering and not in the way that Castiel made it do; instead in a way that leaves Dean thinking he’s dying, that he’s suffocating and drowning and he’s not getting out of this alive.

And Dean hears his name ringing in his ears, and he wants it to be his Angel, but he looks up and sees Sammy with arms wrapped tight around Dean’s body; and Sam is crying too, and every time Dean sobs that he  _ can’t,  _ that he’s scared, Sam replies with a gentle;

_ “It’s gonna be okay, Dean, I swear.” _

When Dean wakes up, Sam is lying on his bed next to him, just as he used to lie in Sammy’s crib when they were children; and Dean’s head is aching so much he thinks it’s going to cave in—that his skull is going to be crushed under the weight of whatever is going on inside of his mind; and his hands are still shuddering, when they used to be so steady.

He’d never considered that his mind could be an enemy of his body, before.

“You don’t have to do this, Dean,” His brother says gently, when Dean has sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bed.

“I know,” Dean replies, and his voice cuts his throat as he speaks. “But I  _ need _ to.”

“Father won’t be disappointed if you don’t, you know, Dean—he won’t think any less of you—”

“Do you truly believe that, Sammy? You know our father, you know what he values most. Even above his own children. And I can’t—” Dean shudders. “I can’t let him down.”

“You wouldn’t be—”

“End of conversation.” Dean stands up, taking a trembling breath. He doesn’t mean to shut his brother out—except he kind of  _ does.  _ And he hates himself for it. But then, he thinks, hates himself anyway.

Sam doesn’t try again. He slides off of Dean’s bed and leaves the room.

Dean can remember when he and Sammy used to share bedrooms. He doesn’t say so, but most nights he misses it. He hates being alone.

He’s managed to compose himself by the time he’s ready to mount his horse and leave the city.

Dean’s father stands in the main courtyard and says his goodbyes to the rest of the soldiers leaving with Dean. Dean doesn’t miss the way John’s hands tremble with goodbyes, too. Dean hates that he finds it comforting that his father is afraid as well.

“Son,” John says, pulling Dean towards him—Dean is shocked by the physical contact, “You’ll do me proud in this war, I know it.”

“Father—”

“I know it.”

Dean’s heart beats with a dawning sense of terror.

“Maybe you’ll be the one that wins us this war,” John smiles as though this is a joke, but something sinks like a stone in water inside of Dean. “I’ll see you when you return in the late fall.”

Dean nods and bows, and John’s hands stay on his horse’s shoulders until the very last minute. It’s all Dean can do not to cry with fear.

 

* * *

 

 

Weeks of travel ended with Dean’s troops making it to the frontline. They were met by the sight of a thousand deceased and still more crying out in the pains of the fast approach of death. This war is chaos, Dean thinks to himself, and in a moment of growing terror, all the days of sailing across the glittering Cerydien Sea seem suddenly as though Dean and the rest of the soldiers were instead making their way across a sea of blood, sparkling red in the bright sunlight.

And the legion remaining, along with Dean’s own troop, had performed the battle formation as instructed, but it hadn’t worked and nothing went to plan and it was a clamour of chaos and death and iron on bone and—

Demons aren’t like Humans. Dean’s body is weak and ravaged and he is staring up at the sky, the sounds of his fellow soldiers dying around him shatters into his ears and is turning his hope to dust. 

He’s going to die, he’s going to die, he didn’t say a long enough goodbye to Sammy, or to Ellen and Jo, or to Bobby or his father—he didn’t say  _ any  _ goodbyes to Cas—and he is going to die here, alone.

Dean’s armour was useless against Demon blades. Where Dionese soldiers had hacked through it with effort and force, Demon blades simply swam through the metal of Human hands. His flesh is cut so deeply into Dean thinks that if he looks down he will be able to see his own organs. As it is, everything hurts too much to move and the thought of seeing himself, so close to death, makes Dean’s mouth froth with the bitter, acidic taste of his own bile.

The sky is turning grey. Maybe that’s just Dean’s vision. Everything hurts so much that white daggers have come striking up across his eyes and nothing is clear anymore. The daggers burn his gaze as though they have been heated by the most terrible of furnaces.

His breathing stutters in his chest; every exhalation is agony, every inhalation is torture.

He is going to die.

He can feel a trickle of blood or sweat or perhaps a mixture of both slide down his forehead and into his eye. He tries to blink it out. Another slides down his temple. Everything stings. Everything aches. His pores seem to be on fire, his skin made of ash.

He can feel the puncture in his chest seep more blood; hot and sticky on sickening on his skin, and Dean is scared that he’s going to choke on his own vomit—but of course, in reality, this is the least of his concerns.

He wonders if his father will cry when he finds out that Dean has died.

Maybe John’s eyes will fill only with disappointment and disgust, not tears, not sadness, at the news that Dean and all those he commanded have been slain in battle.

Ellen will weep, of course, sobs wracking her body, flooding from her chest, a chest which knew only love and kindness. Dean feels tears burn and sting at his eyes at the thought; he thinks a sob tries to escape from between his ribcage but it tears out of him as a broken, gasping pant that feels like it is ripping his lungs in half.  _ Ellen— _ Ellen who is like a mother to Dean, who knows how much he has lost and has never ceased in trying to ease the pain, in trying to fill the holes in his heart while her own is filled with so many, too, will be devastated, and it will be all Dean’s fault.

And what will Sammy do without him? This thought brings another gasping, wheezing sob out of his chest that makes the great gash across his ribcage lob more blood, hot and sticky, and the taste of blood rises to the back of Dean’s throat. Dean has failed, Dean has failed everyone; he has failed his brother, his best friend, and no one is to blame but himself.

Will Cas come to his funeral? Is it bad that Dean wants him to cry? Is it bad that he wants Castiel to be as broken by Dean’s death as Dean would be if Castiel died?

The world aches, and it is dissolving into blackness above Dean; Dean glances down and sees a broken sword still caught in his leg. It has torn through him with such ease that Dean is reminded bizarrely of a piece of cooked meat speared onto a fork. He tries to move his hand, but not even a fingertip twitches. Dean is going to die, and this certainty grows stronger and stronger inside of him.

He wants Castiel. But his Angel isn’t there. And Dean is alone.

His last thought, before the world is lost to him, is that at least now he will be able to see his mother, again. He hopes there’s a heaven, just as she told him. He hopes she’s there.

A clean sob  _ does  _ escape his chest, this time.

 

* * *

 

Dean thinks he can hear his father crying. Someone’s hand is wrapped tightly around his own. There is a familiar ache in his chest and a sharp burning at several places on his skin. He suspects that he’s only wearing a pair of undergarments, and cool air prickles at his chest and neck.

“You need to keep him warmer, father,” he hears Sammy sigh. “He’s got pinpricks along his forearms, look. And stop worrying—the doctor said he would be fine.”

“Now, after  _ weeks,  _ they say he’s recovering.” John chokes out. “And it’s all my fault.” Dean’s father says hollowly.

“No, it’s not. You couldn’t have stopped what happened to him.”

“He wasn’t ready to fight in the Demon war—”

“Is  _ anyone?”  _ Sam sighs. “We got him out in time, and that’s all that matters. And Dean’s going to hate himself enough when he comes to, and what with the added guilt of him having got out alive, when so many others didn’t—just… Don’t make him feel  _ worse. _ It’s a miracle they got him out in time. Your son is  _ alive _ . Focus on that.”

Dean stirs.

“Dean?”

The hand holding Dean’s squeezes his softly, yet there is something desperate and worried set in the gesture’s undertones, in how long it lingers.

Dean’s eyes flicker open. His room swims into awkward, yellowish view. Everything still hurts. He turns and sees his father—the man looks worse than Dean has ever seen him. He’s been drinking, Dean can tell, and what little light was left in his eyes has faded completely. Yet when John notices that Dean is awake, something like hope flickers behind those same eyes—along with the constant burn of guilt.

And then Dean remembers.

He can hardly move. His body stings and aches and throbs and hisses.

And the world turns grey again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, I'm sorry to end it like that. Next chapter, obviously expect a lot of hurt and angst, and then some comfort. It should hopefully be up on the 24th, if all goes according to plan.
> 
> To ease the wait for next chapter, how about you check out my new story, [To Build a Home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8411608/chapters/19274926) \- another Destiel fic, the slowest of slow burns, about Dean and Cas growing up friends, and falling in love? There's a buttload of hurt/comfort/fluff/angst and it also features DEAN AND CAS AS CHILDREN, which I always find adorable.
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope this didn't disappoint! And please comment!


	9. Time, and Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem in this chapter credited to the amazing clearwindowpanemoon.tumblr.com
> 
> Sorry this chapter was a little late, the next one hopefully ought to be up on the 10th of December, and, as a chapter that is a multiple of 5, will be from other character's perspectives (it's very important to the storyline so I wouldn't skip it!)
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy, lots of fluff and healing in this chapter :)

> **“But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.”**
> 
> **—        Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale**
> 
>  

Michael brings the news to Castiel. His expression is hardly promising when he walks into Castiel’s room, and the younger Angel feels a dark sense of foreboding pressing at his lungs like smoke from the fire when it burns black; he assumes that the expression on Michael’s face, ominous, worrisome, is because his oldest brother is going to have to go away again; but then Michael speaks.

 _“Castiel?”_ His tone is cautious, and he takes anxious steps towards the younger Angel. This doesn’t put Castiel any more at ease.

The cool sunlight that can only be seen in its true beauty from the highest mountain ranges in Evadne spatters itself across Michael’s face from the crystal of the arched window in Castiel’s room. It paints his worried face all the cold colours of discomfort in a strangely beautiful, eerie light.

 _“Yes, brother?”_ He replies carefully, his words forming in slow, delicate syllables on his tongue and unwinding carefully into the air between them.

He and Michael haven’t _fought_ since that fateful night in Hera, but sometimes the air still stings with it, their words dance around the poison that has seeped, subtle and near unknowable, into the previously still, caressing waters of their kinship.

Castiel sees the swell of an unspoken sentence in Michael’s sombre expression. Something inside of him deflates and rips in half simultaneously. Worry worms forcefully into his heart and nearly chokes his words.

 _“What’s happened?”_ He asks, voice rough and cracked like burnt stone. Michael’s expression turns only more grave, his lips pressing into a thin line. Castiel swallows thickly, something hard and immovable caught in his throat. _“Are you going away, again?”_

 _“No, little brother.”_ Michael shakes his head, bright eyes unusually dark.

 _“Then whatever is the matter?”_ Castiel almost doesn’t want to ask, yet finds himself unable to quench the gnawing worry in his gut with any kind of wilful ignorance.

 _“—It’s about—your Prince Dean—”_ Michael swallows, looking down, apparently unable to maintain eye contact with Castiel.

Ice snaps itself up Castiel’s limbs and bites at his fingertips.

 _“What’s happened?”_ Castiel asks. He has leapt up without realising and his heart twists uncomfortably, all the air getting pushed out of his lungs at once in a swift, sudden motion.

Michael takes a breath, looking back up to Castiel, before answering.

_“He was sent to the frontlines in the Demon war… and he was caught in a surprise attack—”_

_“No—”_ Castiel shakes his head. Something rises in his throat and he feels nauseated; his eyes sting with the prickle of tears, the floor beneath him seems to be made not of stone, not any more, but mud in a dark and murky swamp, and Castiel cannot find his footing. _“No—”_

_“Brother—”_

_“You’re wrong—”_ Castiel tries to brush his brother’s comforting hands off of him, taking a giddy step away from the Archangel, mind a blur of worry and flashing, mangled images of Dean, hurt, dying, dead.

_“I just received the letter from Sir Robert—”_

_“You’re wrong!”_ Castiel shouts, and tears finally leak onto his face. He shoves his brother again, stumbling with the force of his own blow, and expects Michael to be livid with him, but the Archangel looks only sad—which makes the pressing urge to vomit sting at the back of Castiel’s throat.

 _“Brother, he’s still alive,”_ Michael speaks over him, pressing his hand onto Castiel’s shoulder, grounding him in a moment’s moment with his heavy, warm touch. _“He didn’t die.”_

 _“He didn’t—”_ Castiel looks back up at Michael, tears leaking onto his face. Something like desperate hope twists, damp, in his heart.

 _“They recovered him, just in time.”_ Michael’s palm is still heavy on Castiel’s side. The touch reminds Castiel to breathe, but only just. Castiel wheezes and gasps in shuddering, terrified breaths. _“He’s in Hera, now. He’s recovering.”_

_“He’s—”_

_“He’s alive.”_ Michael says again. _“He was very badly hurt, but he’s young. King John has had physicians tending to his care night and day. They say he may make a recovery. We’re going to visit the castle in a few days.”_

 _“I need to see him_ now _—”_

_“I can’t, brother, I’m sorry.”_

_“Fine, just me, then. I’ll go alone—”_

_“I can’t let you do that, little brother—”_

_“I’m not a child, anymore, Michael!”_ Castiel shouts, and he starts crying again. _“I need to see him! I can fly to Hera—why will you never let me?! I need to go!_ Please _don’t try to stop me—if he_ dies _—”_

And then Castiel has collapsed back onto his bed. And Michael kneels cautiously in front of him, squeezing his youngest brother’s hands in his own.

 _“Castiel, I’m sorry.”_ He says, gently. _“We’ll see him as soon as possible.”_

_“It’s not enough—”_

“Let _it be enough, brother.”_ Michael replies. _“I know what this Human boy means to you, but—”_

This twists something saturated with hatred and regret in Castiel’s heart. It’s bitter and sharp and spikes something of a raw nerve inside Castiel’s already aching chest. He has spent his whole life not fitting in with the other Angels, and now Michael is telling him that he _understands,_ as if he ever could, and it curls Castiel’s lip and only fuels the sadness and sense of disconnection from his own kind in Castiel’s soul that has existed, he thinks, since his own birth.

 _“You_ don’t _understand.”_ Castiel spits. _“How could you ever understand?!”_ He stands again, tears threatening to spill over the edges of his eyes, again, clouding his vision and stinging his nerves.

_“Castiel—”_

_“You don’t understand, Michael, because you’re just like the rest of our kind—you’re a_ shell, _you don’t feel—not like I do—you don’t understand, you don’t know what he means to me. You’ll never know, because you’ve never—”_

Michael’s jaw hardens, as does his expression.

“No, _Castiel, you simply don’t know how much I_ do _understand.”_

 _“Your heart is_ completely _shut off!—”_

 _“And with good reason!”_ Michael bites. _“You know so little, Castiel—you are so ignorant of these matters; don’t you_ dare _assume that kind of thing about me. You have barely been alive for a_ fraction _of my life, you assume that you can make your own way safely to Hera in the middle of a_ war _when our greatest enemy nearly killed your_ lover, _and yet you believe that I am ignorant of all matters of the heart—”_

He swallows hard, and looks down. When he next speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.

_“You are the one who doesn’t understand. Stop behaving like a child, brother.”_

_“I would if you stopped_ treating _me like one.”_ Castiel spits back, although he can feel his frame shaking slightly from his brother’s outburst, of which more and more have been occurring, each passing month.

 _“We’ll be leaving in a few days.”_ Michael states, standing up. _“That is my final decision.”_

 _“I hate you.”_ Castiel says, before he has time to stop himself. Michael stops in his tracks, and Castiel flinches, expecting outrage. Something upset and confused twists in his heart when he sees that the King only looks despondent and accepting. Michael’s expression is not surprised, only downcast.

_“And you are not the first brother of mine to say that to me.”_

And before Castiel can ask what Michael means, or apologise to him, the Archangel has left. The door is closed thickly behind him. Castiel begins to cry again. He doesn’t stop until he falls asleep, face aching with exhaustion and worry.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tensions are high with Michael in the days following the fight, but neither of them are impolite to each other. Castiel regrets his harsh words to his brother—he wants to tell Michael that he was overwhelmed; that he didn’t mean it, but the words fail in his mouth. They don’t even make it past his tongue.

He looks at the floor of their carriage, now. Michael is staring out the window. Castiel rests his head against the side of the chariot and closes his eyes. He wants to pretend that it’s merely because he’s tired—which, granted, he is—but honestly, he fears he’s going to start crying, again.

He feels Michael’s gaze fall on his face. He doesn’t open his eyes.

 _“He’ll be okay, brother.”_ The High King says gently.

 _“You don’t know that.”_ Castiel’s voice rakes against his throat. He hears Michael sigh softly, and move from opposite him to seat himself next to Castiel.

 _“I do.”_ He replies, and Castiel wishes his brother wasn’t so stubborn. He wishes this was not a trait the two of them shared, as they do. _“He’s strong, and he is young. And more than anything, I am sure he will be glad to see you.”_

Castiel is silent in response. He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he speaks again.

 _“What did you mean, when you said that you understand?”_ He asks. He can sense Michael’s frame tensing next to him.

_“Another time, brother.”_

_“You’re never going to tell me.”_ Castiel’s hollow laughter rings with defeat. _“You’ll never tell me_ anything _about your past, or about my future. Just admit it.”_

 _“No, I will.”_ Michael denies. _“When you’re ready.”_

_“You always say that.”_

_“When_ I’m _ready.”_

_“You always say that, too.”_

_“Give it time, Castiel.”_

_“You’ll never be ready,”_ Castiel’s face twists with something, and he isn’t sure what it is. _“You’ll never tell me. My whole life has been surrounded by secrets, and it will continue to be so to the day I die.”_

Michael sighs.

 _“On your twentieth birthday, Castiel,”_ He replies, resignedly. _“I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”_

_“What if you can’t bring yourself to tell me?”_

_“I’ll do my very best to tell you everything that you need to know.”_

_“Need to know?”_ Castiel repeats.

“Deserve _to know,”_ Michael corrects himself.

 _“What if it hurts you, too much, to say?”_ The concern rises in Castiel’s throat.

 _“I’ll say everything I can,”_ Michael replies. _“Which is what you deserve. You’re right, Castiel—this hasn’t been fair on you. None of it has. I’m sorry.”_

 _“That’s okay.”_ Castiel’s voice has become unnaturally small. _“You’ve only ever done what’s best for me.”_

 _“I’ve only ever_ tried _to do that,”_ Michael sighs gloomily. _“Although I fear I’ve failed on more occasions than I would like to admit.”_

_“No—”_

Michael hushes Castiel.

_“Get some sleep, brother. You’re tired, I can tell. I’ll be here when you wake up.”_

It’s a small and subtle promise, intended to comfort Castiel, and it does just that. The young Angel feels a swell of affection for his brother; and with that, a swell of guilt for his harsh words to him those days previously. He bites his lip.

 _“I’m sorry for what I said, Michael,”_ His voice comes out quieter than ever. _“I didn’t mean it.”_

 _“What are you referring to?”_ Confusion laces Michael’s voice, and Castiel swallows.

_“When I said that I hated you. It wasn’t true.”_

_“I wouldn’t blame you if it was—”_ Michael tries to laugh, but the sound comes out hollow and a little too honest to be a joke. Castiel presses his lips together.

_“It’s not.”_

There is a pause again.

Muted sunlight, dappling through the trees as they dance past the carriage, splashes patterns across Michael’s face.

Castiel wants to ask what his brother meant when he said that he had already been told by a brother of theirs that he was hated—but he sighs and reminds himself that it is very unlikely Michael would answer.

 _“When you turn twenty, Castiel,”_ Michael reminds, as if reading his younger brother’s mind. _“I will tell you everything.”_

It is over a year away. But Castiel takes his brother’s advice, and lets it be enough.

When he wakes up, they have arrived in Hera. Castiel feels queasy all over again.

Robert and the King greet them at the gates. Castiel thinks of how sickly Dean’s father looks. It only adds to the trembling sense of foreboding resting thinly inside his gut. His limbs feel weak and reedy. He _needs_ to see Dean.

Ellen leads him up to Dean’s room and stops just outside his door to speak with Castiel. She keeps her voice quiet, and though Castiel wonders why, he does the same when he replies.

“I’m not sure if he’ll be awake, or not—but if he is, he’ll be _really_ glad to see you, Cas,” Ellen smiles gently. She pats Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel hadn’t realised that he and Ellen were on such informal terms, but then, he reminds himself, she seems an oddly informal person in general—much of this appears to have rubbed off on Dean—and Castiel _has_ known her for well over a year, now.

“How has he been?” Castiel asks. A worried frown knots at his forehead.

Ellen bites her lip, gaze flickering away from the Angel’s in a stuttering, uncertain motion that speaks the worry Ellen seems to be refusing to articulate.

“He’s definitely getting better,” She states, her voice barely above a whisper. “He sleeps most of the time. But it’s the _guilt_ that’s killing him, I think. He can’t stand the fact that he was going to die, with most of the rest of his troops, and was interrupted by getting rescued. And he hates that it’s happened twice, now.”

Castiel swallows.

“He feels guilty?”

“He resents having been recovered when all others were lost. He doesn’t think it’s fair.”

Castiel nods.

“May I go in, now?” He asks. Ellen smiles and pats his shoulder, her expression seeping suddenly with warmth.

“Sure, honey.” She nods. Castiel doesn’t mention the informality of Ellen’s language, because if he is honest, he quite likes it.

Ellen opens the door softly and peers through.

“Dean, sweetie, are you awake?”

There is an inaudible reply that sounds something like a pained moan.

Ellen nods Castiel through, and doesn’t seem to register the Angel’s concerned expression—either that; or she expects that all his questions will be answered soon enough.

“You have a visitor, honey.” Ellen says as she enters the room behind Castiel, closing the door behind her.

Dean is lying on his back, on his bed—his sheets are stripped back to his feet and several pails sit beneath his bedframe—Castiel doesn’t want to think of what they are for. Another larger pail with a cloth draped over the side sits at the foot of Dean’s bed, and a jug of water along with a bronze goblet rest on the small table beside Dean’s bed. The room smells of archaic spices and herbs, there are pots of cleansing salts littered beside the goblets and sprigs of lavender, perhaps for luck, tied to each poster of the Prince’s bedframe.

“Who?” Dean asks, turning his head slightly, but when he sees Castiel, something changes in his features.

“It’s Cas—” Ellen tries to say, beaming, but Dean’s groan interrupts her.

“Get him out of here, Ellen!” He tries to shout, but his voice rakes against his throat and makes an ugly, tearing sound. Castiel is taken aback, he feels his face heat and he thinks his heart sinks several feet inside of him.

“Dean—” Ellen tries to reason, but Dean shouts over her again.

“Get him out!” He yells once more, and there is another cry of pain from where he lies. “Get him _out,_ get him _out_ of here, Ellen!”

Dean’s eyes slide over to Castiel’s face, and Castiel thinks he wants to be sick at the action; at the horror and disgust Dean’s eyes hold as they glare at him.

“Get out, Cas! _Now_!” He roars, his voice tearing in his throat, it seems as though the action rips it in half; some of Dean’s wounds reopen and start lobbing blood from the pressure of Dean’s uproar, and Castiel doesn’t need to be told again. He is out, back onto the corridor, the sound of Dean’s shouting still ringing in his ears—Dean is groaning and crying from inside his room, and Castiel feels the cruel sting of tears press at his eyes, once again.

He presses his back against the wall and slides onto the grey castle floor, cold to the touch. From here he hears Ellen starting to shout at Dean back inside the room, too, now.

And he knows he shouldn’t, but, almost sobbing and trembling with confusion, Castiel listens to what it is the two of them are saying.

“What the hell has gotten into you, Dean?!” Ellen shouts, her voice hard and furious as she speaks to Dean.

“What the fuck does that mean, what the hell’s gotten into me?—Ellen, fucking _look_ at me!” Dean shouts back, and Castiel hears more tears disfiguring his voice as it catches at his throat.

“You’ve spent _weeks_ telling me you wished you had Cas by your side, and when you finally do, you yell at him to get out!” Ellen replies, her tone still lined with just as much fury as it was before. “What’s _wrong_ with you, Dean?! What’s the matter?!”

“I don’t—” Dean’s voice breaks off.

“You don’t _what?”_ Ellen bites, and Castiel wonders why it is she is being quite so hard on him; when he had previously thought her such a calm and soothing presence.

“I don’t want him to see me—I don’t want him to see me like this. Not like _this.”_ Dean’s voice is quiet now, and it still grazes his throat as he speaks. It is laced with defeat and hopelessness and even the sound of it is enough to make renewed tears, these ones of a different kind, sting at the back of Castiel’s eyes.

He hears Ellen sigh softly inside Dean’s room.

“Well, that’s too bad, Dean.” She replies firmly, although her tone is considerably gentler, now. “’Cause he already has. And then some. And you know what? He doesn’t care about what you look like. He cares that you’re okay. That’s why he came to visit. Now, are you going to let him in?” She asks; her voice has become more and more tender as she has gone on, and is now next to motherly with an unspoken love and calmness pulsing through her words.

“He won’t—”

“He won’t _care_ , Dean.”

“Fine.” Dean says. There is another grumble of pain, and Castiel hears Ellen fill a cup of water and hand it to Dean.

Ellen comes back outside.

“I’m sorry about that, Castiel. You can come in, now.”

Cautiously, Castiel stands and enters Dean’s bedroom again. He’s still shaking.

“Dean,” Ellen says, gently but firmly. “Do you want to try again?”

Dean doesn’t turn his head to face Castiel and it sets something thick and painful splintering inside of Castiel’s heart.

Dean mumbles something inaudible, and Ellen sighs and sits on a chair in the corner of the room, gesturing for Castiel to go forward.

“Dean,” Castiel says warily, taking soft steps towards where Dean lies helplessly on his bed. “What happened?”

Dean’s expression turns bitter and upset—or, more so than it already was—and he turns his head again so that he doesn’t have to look at Castiel. The coursing pain in Castiel’s heart is by no means lessened by this gesture.

“It doesn’t matter.” Dean’s lip curls, and Castiel fumbles with his own hands in an attempt to keep them from trembling.

Dean’s body is left mostly uncovered—the only item of clothing he wears is his undergarments, but aside for that, his body is bare. Dark, scarring gashes cover his skin, and Castiel can make out at least one stab wound at the top of his leg, peeking out from under his covers, and what he thinks is another on his chest. During Ellen’s chiding of Dean, Castiel guesses that she redressed the wounds, which are now covered with an odd translucent mixture of pale green plants and oils that look strange against the colour of his cuts. Truthfully, it is a miracle that Dean survived. Castiel says as much. Dean only snorts in response.

His face is pale and drained; dark circles form beneath his eyes, much like those beneath his father’s, and Dean’s eyes themselves are bloodshot and tired, yellow and red eking across what ought to be white and setting a sickly colour against the jade of the Prince’s irises.

“Please talk to me, Dean.” Castiel says, and his voice trembles with the threat of tears; but for the first time since he entered, Dean turns to look at him.

“And what should I say?” He asks. “That you look good? And then there’ll be an awkward silence while you figure out what to say in response, ‘cause you don’t want to lie to me, but at the same time, you don’t want to admit that I look like death itself, come to haunt my own kingdom? Or maybe, _maybe,_ you’ll tell me how happy you are that I survived; but if I’m being honest with _you,_ Castiel, I wish I _had_ died, because that’s what I _deserved—”_

“Dean—” Ellen trues to cut across, but Dean ignores her.

“Or maybe I should ask you _why the fuck_ this happened to me—and you know what, Cas, let’s go with that. Why the fuck _did_ it happen? ‘Cause I’m starting to believe that if there is a God, like all of you keep saying, He either hates me, or He’s forsaken me completely; has decided that I’m not worth the trouble. So what is it, Castiel, if you have all the answers—why is He doing this to me?”

Castiel looks down.

“The Lord works—”

“If you say ‘mysterious ways’, so help me I will kick your ass,” Dean snarls. “From where I fucking lie.”

Castiel bites his lip.

“Then I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you, Dean.”

“I thought as much.” Dean looks away again, tone bitterly triumphant. There is a biting pause. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.” He states, finally, and sounds broken instead of angry now. Castiel almost thinks he _preferred_ Dean’s anger to this hopelessness.

“I know. I heard.”

Dean snorts.

“They shouldn’t have rescued me.” He says, and his voice cracks with the weight of his own words. Castiel tilts his head to the side and squints at the Prince as he regards him carefully, drinking in the sight of Dean, somehow beautiful as ever, even covered as he is from chest down in rickety and strangely elegantly curved scars.

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved,” He states, voice lost to its own thoughtfulness. Dean still doesn’t look at Castiel. “Good things _do_ happen, Dean.” He reminds.

“Yeah? Well, not in my experience. And not to me.”

“Apparently they _do,”_ Castiel points out.

Dean sighs.

“I shouldn’t have survived. Not _again.”_

“I’m glad that you did,” Castiel confesses softly. Dean looks back up to Castiel. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean’s expression crumples into something new, and Castiel sees the Human Prince hold out his hand, a silent plea, and Castiel slips his own into it, careful to be gentle—but Dean grips onto the Angel’s fingers as tightly as Castiel thinks the Human is capable of right now, and Castiel squeezes cautiously back.

“Ellen, can you leave us, please?” Dean asks, and his voice is broken and quiet, once more.

“Have you finished shouting?” Ellen asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes,” Dean nods. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not _me_ you should be apologising to, Prince Dean,” Ellen says, pointedly glancing at Castiel, before her eyes flicker back over to Dean’s face.

“You don’t need to—” Castiel attempts to reassure, but Dean shakes his head and stills the Angel’s words before they reach the edge of his lips.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” He says, his throat sounding more raw than ever. “I was—” His voice breaks off, but whether this is from exhaustion or emotion Castiel finds it difficult to tell.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Castiel soothes gently. He squeezes Dean’s hand. “I understand.”

Ellen smiles by the door.

“Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean nods. Castiel thinks that it looks like the motion hurts Dean to do. “Thank you, Ellen.”

“That’s alright, kid,” Ellen smiles, sunshine creeping onto her face, though something about it seems dulled, as if by the clouds. She closes the door softly behind her. There is a stillness, a silence in the room for a few moments; marked only by Dean’s grip on Castiel’s hand and the Human’s slow, pained breathing.

“Could you tell me a story?” Dean asks. Castiel feels almost amused by the request. Amused and endeared, and relieved that Dean is speaking to Castiel with the renewed tenderness of the Angel’s last visit. “One of the ones you were told as a child?”

“Okay,” Castiel nods by way of gentle confirmation. He pulls the chair Ellen was sitting on up beside Dean’s bed and slips his hand in the Prince’s again. He thinks for a moment before he chooses a story. Dean closes his eyes when Castiel begins to speak.

He tells Dean of the first Great Angel; Aoveae, the first to rule over the Three Kingdoms and all those who dwelt there in the Heavenly Realms. One of the few Angels in their history famous for experiencing romantic love; a real, profound love that few Angels could or would understand.

Castiel explains how she fell in love with a serving Angel who told the Archangel that she was a lost servant only passing through the Kingdom whilst visiting her family.

“She told the Archangel Aovae that her name was Ziarre, and that she would have to leave the city come the end of summer, to return to her home. It was the brightest, warmest summer the Angels of the Mountain had ever known; as if the sky itself had fallen out of the sky and there was nothing left to buffet against the sunlight, raining down on them. And the Great Angel fell in love with the serving girl so thoroughly that when summer’s end approached, and the trees turned from green to the colour of rust, and the blossom fell and the fruit began to rot, Aovae couldn’t function for the grief that the thought of being without Ziarre left her with.

“Aoveae begged Ziarre love not to leave her, but, teary eyed, Ziarre had told her to look up to the heavens whenever Aoveae missed the servant’s presence too much to otherwise bear. And so, after spending only a few, turning seasons with Ziarre, the Great Angel had her ripped from her life; and spent her nights deprived of sleep, weeping silently for her lost Angel.

“Abra, watching all of this, took pity on the Great Angel; for She knew an awful yet fantastic secret that the Archangel was not yet a part of.

“And so, when, overpowered with grief and loneliness, Aoveae took her own life, Abra scattered her dust and ashes into the night sky; where come each evening, the Great Angel could become a part of her lover, once more. It is in this way that the two were reunited when day met night and dusk fell. Aoveae, though now no longer part of this world, was a part of the next—and was made one with her lover whenever darkness shrouded the earth from the heavens. The wait for nightfall was nothing compared to what Aoveae had once faced: a lifetime without her love, and so happiness embraced the pair and wrapped them up in wings of shimmering yellow.

“Abra, not wishing to discontinue this tradition, decided to place all the souls of all the Angels who have passed from this life and into the next into the night sky, so that they may remain with their loved ones in spirit, until their friends and family join them in death.

“Aoveae means star, in Enochian. The stars are the lights of all the dead, watching over us—and though they cannot touch us, they still love us. And they still guide us all, even beyond death.” Castiel finishes. Dean breathes in softly.

“And Ziarre—” Dean starts,

“Was the sky.” Castiel smiles, nodding. “And the first Great Angel was an Angel who fell in love with the sky so entirely that she killed herself, if only to become closer to it.”

“Is that true?”

“I believe it’s a metaphor.” Castiel says, a smile prickling at his lips. “The first Archangel killed herself after her lover, a humble servant, died; and we remember our dead by looking up at the stars, which is where we believe their spirits come to rest.”

“I like the thought that an Angel fell in love with the sky.”

“Yes, it’s very poetic.” Castiel agrees, chuckling softly. “Although not particularly possible.”

“No, I guess not.” Dean shakes his head. The movement is very small; delicate, as though Dean is scared he will break if he moves too quickly. His eyes flutter closed again.

“And it’s one of the reasons Angels dislike being overpowered by romantic love so much, I believe.” Castiel muses quietly.

“Because of that story?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Castiel nods. He finds himself smiling affectionately. “That was my brother Michael’s favourite story.”

“Oh?” Dean replies sleepily. “When did he say that?”

“Well, he’s never _said_ it,” Castiel corrects himself, “but whenever I asked him to tell me a legend or tale to help me get to sleep as a child, more often than not he would pick that one. And he always smiled—sort of sadly—whenever he told it.”

“Why do you think he likes it so much?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel shrugs, “I’ve never asked.”

“Maybe it was a story always told to _him,_ when he was a kid.”

“Maybe.”

Castiel smiles down at Dean, at the way his eyelashes flutter slowly as his eyes slide shut.

There is a pause. Castiel thinks Dean has fallen asleep, his hand still tangled with Castiel’s, but then he speaks again.

“Castiel?” He hums, and Castiel’s lips twitch upwards.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Stay.” Dean croaks. “Stay with me.”

“Of course.” The Angel squeezes Dean’s hand. “I’ll watch over you.”

Dean sighs, something in the motion almost wistful.

“And Cas?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Dean smiles gently. Castiel feels a warmth glow, simmering giddily inside of him, at Dean’s words. “I’m sorry about earlier.” A pause. Then, again: “I’m glad you’re here.”

Castiel is going to reply, but this time, Dean really _has_ fallen asleep. So he leans forward and places the softest of kisses on the tip of Dean’s nose—and he thinks he sees the Human’s lips being twitched upwards.

Castiel waits by Dean’s side like that until the Prince awakes. Several servants come in to tend to him while he sleeps, redressing wounds and soothing hot cloths over those cuts that have reopened, and on multiple occasions Ellen enters the room and insists that Castiel gets some rest, or food, or both; but the Angel politely refuses.

He made a promise. And he intends to keep it.

When Dean wakes up again he looks more tired than ever. But he seems in better health despite this, and Ellen comes in and actually manages to get him to eat something. Dean holds Castiel’s hand through all of it. When Ellen has gone again, Dean turns back to Castiel, his breathing deep, but even.

“Hey, Cas,” He smiles, like he’s actually pleased to see the Angel there, and Castiel’s lips are tilted gently upwards at the look on Dean’s face.

“Hello, Dean.”

“You stayed,” Dean observes, quietly.

“I promised I would,” Castiel replies. He squeezes Dean’s hand.

“And you always keep your promises?” Dean almost grins, but Castiel can tell that pulling expression is painful for him.

“With you, I always will.”

“That’s a very heavy handed commitment to make, Angel,” Dean laughs, the sound raking against his throat.

“Then I’ll always _try,_ at least.”

“That sounds better,” Dean laughs, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling. “I’ll do the same, too.”

Castiel laughs gently and presses a kiss to Dean’s knuckles. Dean smiles and closes his eyes at the touch.

“You still haven’t taught me Enochian, you know,” He says, his eyes still shut. “And _that’s_ a promise that you made to me.”

“Yes, I believe I forgot about that,” Castiel admits.

“And I taught you how to ride.”

“You did,” Castiel agrees. “I apologise—I think it slipped my mind during each of my stays with you.”

“I guess it must have,” Dean nods.

“I could teach you some, now?” Castiel suggests.

“You could…” Dean’s lips twitch upwards from where he lies. “I’d like that.”

“What do you want to learn to say?” Castiel inquires.

“How about if you tell me how to thank you?”

“You want to thank me?” Castiel frowns. “What for?”

“For staying,” Is Dean’s simple, light-hearted answer. Castiel feels himself sigh, and something inside of his heart unties itself.

 ** _“Thank you,”_** Castiel says gently, and Dean repeats it slowly, the words curling around his tongue. Castiel smiles at his poor pronunciation—which Dean seems to notice too; because he huffs to himself and repeats the phrase over and over until Castiel thinks he is happy with it.

 ** _“Thank you.”_** Dean turns to Castiel, opening his eyes again. Castiel’s heart swells with warmth for the Human.

“That time was perfect,” Castiel smiles, and Dean does too, heartened.

“Angels have poetry of their own, too, right?” He asks.

“Yes,” Castiel frowns, slightly. “Of course.”

“Can you recite some for me, now?” Dean asks.

“Why?”

“’Cause I like your voice, and ‘cause I nearly died, so you have to do what I tell you.”

Castiel’s face heats.

“You shouldn’t be using that to emotionally blackmail me, Dean—”

“Fine, ‘cause I’m the Crown Prince of this Kingdom and you’re in my castle,” Dean laughs. The sound is shallow and breathy.

“Okay,” Castiel shakes his head, biting down on amusement. “It’s all either praising God, or in the form of prophesies, though. It’s nothing like your Human poetry—”

“I don’t care.” Dean closes his eyes. “I want to hear it. I want to hear you say it.”

Castiel doesn’t know if it’s right that he should feel the bright warmth coil tightly in his heart at this, but he does anyway.

“Alright,” He nods.

He starts slowly, reciting the scripts of their prophets told in verse—those that make very little sense to him, and Dean’s breathing slows, his hand going limp in Castiel’s fingers again, and when Castiel has finished the third call, he is certain that Dean is asleep.

Ellen comes in and is adamant that Castiel leaves; at least for a while, to allow himself some rest. Castiel feels as though he is tearing his body from Dean’s side when he admits defeat and stands. He hates it.

The rest of his stay at the castle is spent in much a similar fashion to this—Dean will waver from states of sleeping to being awake; and slowly Castiel can see the Prince recovering. Castiel will sleep by Dean’s side on the chair, most nights. He doesn’t care for a bed. Servants come in to change Dean’s clothing and sheets, as well as to wash him; and Dean insists—his face very red as he does so—that Castiel leaves during these times.

Sometimes, clearly frustrated with his condition, Dean will snap at Castiel in a much similar manner to the way he did when Castiel first arrived, and Castiel’s face will heat, tears prickling at his eyes as Dean groans in pain, his cries raw against his throat.

But mostly Dean just smiles gratefully at Castiel whenever he is near; saying how glad he is that he has the Angel by his side. He tilts his head up and drinks the water Castiel gives him, and continues asking for stories from Castiel; most likely because he is so bored. As well as this, he’ll also ask the Angel to speak more Enochian to him, or read passages from his favourite books as his eyes flutter gently open and closed.

One day, when Dean is drifting to sleep, and so not quite himself, he tells Castiel that he likes the sound of the Angel’s voice. Castiel smiles, his ears heating. Then Dean says that he likes Castiel’s voice even more when he speaks Enochian—Castiel wonders if _this_ is why Dean is constantly requesting Castiel speak it, to him.

Dean’s hand is always tangled with Castiel’s whenever the Angel is by his side.

“Another poem,” Dean mumbles sleepily as Castiel finishes a story told in verse. Castiel thinks that the process of healing and the medicines Dean is being given must be what is making the Human so tired.

“In Enochian?”

“No,” Dean shakes his head this time. “I want one about love.”

“Oh,” Castiel stammers, face heating. “Okay.”

He wracks his brain for a moment before deciding on a poem. Then he begins.

“The first time I say  _I love you_ , your face  
crumbles. You look at me  
the way man stares in terror  
at the stars and the sea.

“You grasp your head, fist  
your hair, hiss, whisper  _why me_  
why me I am weak I am  
dirt I am dust I am  
nothing—

“Why you? Because  
the earth is made of dust  
and dirt and you are as  
essential to me as earth  
is to sky; you give me something  
to set my sun against.

“The dirt and the dust are not  
weak. I could build a house  
out of you; you are the roof  
when I rain.”

Dean breathes out, long and slow, when the Angel finishes.

“I liked that one.” He mumbles sleepily.

“I thought you would.”

Castiel doubts that Dean will be able to remember this moment.

The Human’s wounds are starting to close up—Michael, although he is not a Healer, knows of several herbs that aid the healing process, and writes to Castiel telling him to attempt their Shaman’s healing spells on Dean to see if Castiel has similar gifts to any of their Druids.

Dean tells Castiel of how his father tried to get their own Kingdom’s sorcerers to heal Dean when he was not waking up, and explains how furious Sammy had told him the King had got when none of these attempts worked. Castiel wonders how it is Dean recovered, if even magic didn’t work on him.

Sam is far taller now. Even in the small months between Castiel’s last visit and now, Dean’s brother has grown even larger, and Dean laughs and jokingly tells Castiel that by the time Dean is able to walk again, his brother’s head will be touching the ceiling.

Dean’s right leg has been broken in two places—when he was trampled on by a passing, panicked horse—and his ankle and shin fractured when he fell off of his own. Dean tells Castiel of how he never brings Impala into battle. He says that because she is a mare, she isn’t as strong as some of the other stallions—but there’s something else. Dean cares about his horse too much to see her killed as so many steeds are in combat.

“What do Angels think of Humans, Castiel?” Dean asks one morning. The question surprises Castiel—not least of all because he had previously believed Dean to be asleep, and he feels more than slightly tempted to lie to the young Human.

The truth, Castiel is certain, would offend Dean.

Because Angels think Humans to be weak and incapable—if amiable—and therefore _of course_ in need of protection and guidance. They believe Humans to be too driven by their emotions and marked by their constant search for reassurance and their incessant need to feel loved.

Angels believe Humans to be foolish and immature; like young children, except they never seem to grow up—Humans cannot control themselves, let alone their surroundings, and Castiel imagines it to be maddening.

He can’t say this.

“The truth will probably cause you a little offense, Dean.” Castiel waters down his words a great deal; diluting them in an attempt to rid them of any potency that might offend the young Human, but Dean pulls a hard, unconvinced face and Castiel has to look away.

“Tell me, Cas. I wanna know. I don’t care if it’s not good stuff. I won’t get offended.”

Castiel wants to protest and contest that actually, Dean most likely _will,_ considering his character, but Dean is injured and tired, and probably frustrated enough, so Castiel does not attempt to fuel his temper any further.

“Angels pity Humans.” He says, shortly. Dean doesn’t seem satisfied; although he at least does not look aggravated by Castiel’s answer—perhaps a little curious as to why, and the questioning noise Dean makes at the back of his throat in response to Castiel’s answer only further seems to prove Castiel’s conclusion.

He thinks for a matter of seconds, pursing his lips and breathing out through his nose.

“We pity you for your constant war; which Angels—until we involved ourselves in the Demon war—had not partaken in for a great many centuries. We pity you for your lack of self-control, for you constant bombardment of raw emotions; for your physical weaknesses and short lifespans; for everything that makes you _un-Angel,_ if you will. Truth be told, Dean, you were right to think that Angels are egotistical and supercilious. We are just so. Angels pity Humans.”

“And you, Castiel?” Dean looks up, tilting his head slightly to gaze intently into Castiel’s eyes. Dean’s eyes, so different from those of Angels’, and yet no less intense, burrow into Castiel’s soul in a way that none of his own kind could while staring at him. There is no cold intensity, only a pressing warmth that unfurls through each of Castiel’s limbs and somehow manages to brighten his heart despite the dimness of their circumstances. “What do _you_ think?” Dean asks.

Castiel pauses for a moment before answering.

“I think you are beautiful.” He says softly. “I think you are _all_ beautiful. Humanity is beautiful—but you, in particular, Dean, capture so much of that which has enchanted me my whole life. Your raw emotion captures my own perfectly, I think, only you are more honest and frank about it; your short life seems so infinitely appealing to me, there’s a restfulness in it I don’t think I could find in centuries of living among my own kind; you draw me to you like blood to the surface from a pouring wound; and I don’t mind, when my whole life, I have learnt that I should. I think you’re beautiful.”

Dean makes a noise at the back of his throat, like he is in pain—it falls between a groan and a sigh—and Castiel wants to ask if he is okay, but Dean is tugging at Castiel’s shoulder, tugging the Angel down, and before Castiel can think, Dean is kissing him.

Castiel might love Humanity, but Dean is different.

Dean is _everything_.

 

* * *

 

 

“Thank you for staying with him so often,” Ellen’s eyes crease up as her smile reaches them, as she enters the room one sunny afternoon. Her voice makes Castiel jump; Dean had been sleeping and Castiel, in all honesty, had been very close to dropping off himself. He turns around to face Ellen and sees her carrying a new pail of water and cloth for Dean. Her hair is tied up and back off her forehead and face, a few wispy tendrils creeping down from a day’s work as a hand of the castle.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Is his honest reply.

Ellen looks at him warmly as she closes the door behind her, careful to remain quiet.

“He’s glad he has you,” She smiles amiably, straightening out Dean’s sheets as subtly as possible so as not to wake the sleeping Prince. “He’s very thankful he has you here.”

“He has told you this?” Castiel asks, his heart twisting awkwardly—though for what reason, he cannot tell.

“He doesn’t need to.” Ellen laughs, her head tipping back as she does so. “I practically raised the boy. I can tell.” Castiel nods and looks down, something like disappointment tugging at the strings of his mind. “But as a matter of face, yes, he has,” Ellen nods. Castiel’s eyes are driven back up to her face.

“What did he say?” He asks, attempting not to sound too interested; although from his tone it is painfully clear how invested he is in Ellen’s answer. “And when was this?”

Ellen’s lips tilt further up. The look is kind and soft, and Castiel thinks he understands why Dean sees this woman as so much of a mother to him.

“That he was glad you were here,” Ellen chortles, words frank and simple. “Just that. You know Dean, he doesn’t like to go into any great detail about how he’s feeling, but he did tell me that much, at least. He’s missed you.” She smiles warmly and squeezes Castiel’s shoulder, before leaning over him and checking Dean’s temperature with the back of her hand.

“Most of his wounds were pretty infected when he first arrived. He had an awful fever, and we were certain that blood poisoning would finish him off. John brought in as many druids and healers as he could find and then blamed them when they couldn’t wake him up—but if you ask me, I don’t think Dean would have made it through if it hadn’t been for them. They might not be as powerful as your Angel healers, but they certainly have done him good.”

Castiel nods at Ellen.

“He still has the fever, now?” He asks, glancing back at Dean and brushing a few strands of hair back from the Human’s forehead.

“I think he’s sweated it off.” Ellen says, glancing at Dean, too. She bites her lip, and Castiel notes a flicker of concern in her features. “He really was in a bad way, Sire. Everyone was worried sick about him—and he was in the most awful of moods, too; which I know we can’t blame him for—he’s in an awful state, and I can’t say I envy him.”

“He seems more anxious than I remember him to be.” Castiel states, his thumb still stroking Dean’s face absently.

“He is,” Ellen nods. “I’m sorry about his outburst on your first day. He’s been all over the place, really, which again, isn’t his fault—but it can be quite upsetting. I think he’s yelled at me more times this month than over the rest of his life.”

Castiel looks back down at Dean.

“I hope he gets well again.”

“He will, honey,” Ellen smiles, attaching the handle of the metal pail she brought in to the room to a hook above the fireplace, heating the water slowly. “You’ve made him a great deal better, I can already tell.”

“What makes you say that?” Castiel asks, hope twisting at his heart.

“He smiles now, for one thing,” Ellen’s eyes crinkle at their corners, and she moves over to a small cupboard in the corner of the room and pulls out a broom, which she begins to use, clearly making a conscious effort to be quiet with it.

“He tells me how glad he is he’s got you—whenever you’re not by his bedside, he always asks after you; wants to know where you are and when you’ll be back,” Ellen continues. Castiel cannot help but smile, something bright and warm blanketing his insides. “He cares a great deal for you, I think.”

“And I, for him,” Comes Castiel’s earnest reply. He takes Dean’s hand in his own and squeezes it gently.

“You know, before he first met you, Dean was dreading all of this.”

“I know,” Castiel nods. “I don’t blame him. I was, too.”

“I think you’ve quite successfully changed where he stands on the topic of Angels.”

“That’s a relief,” Castiel’s lips tilt upwards, near unconsciously. “He seemed to quite hate us, to begin with.”

“Yes,” Ellen nods, “but not anymore.”

She pulls a stool out from the corner of the room, and places it next to Castiel.

“Would you mind me sitting with you?” She asks.

“Not at all,” Castiel smiles, words and expression both totally honest. “It’d be a relief to get some company.”

Ellen laughs and nods her head understandingly.

“You’ve been very good to stay with him for this long.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to him,” Castiel replies sincerely. Ellen’s expression, as open and candid as flowers in the early morning sun, is prompting something previously untapped in him to come pouring out. “And I don’t want to _not_ be there, if anything does.”

“He’s lucky to have you.” Ellen smiles.

Castiel blushes and looks down at his hand, still wrapped around Dean’s. He squeezes it softly.

“Dean said that you were his and Sam’s nanny, after the Demon attack on Hera?” Castiel asks, after a brief quiet between himself and Ellen. Ellen looks up, as though having been lost in a daze, and nods.

“I was,” She confirms. “I still kind of am, though he’d hate for me to say that,” She chortles.

“Dean is easily embarrassed,” Castiel observes. An affectionate smile flickers at Ellen’s face.

“He is,” She admits, smirk so subtle it is hardly noticeable. “But he’s a good kid.”

“He said you’ve been like a mother to him, over the years.”

“Did he?” Ellen asks, beaming. “That’s awfully sweet of him…” She smiles down at Dean as he rests. “That’s very sweet,” She repeats, softer this time. Her eyes crinkle at their corners, and Castiel thinks he sees them being shrouded by tears. “He and Sam have been like sons to me, I suppose, too. And like brothers to Jo.”

“Your daughter?” Castiel asks. Ellen nods.

“That’s her,” She confirms. “She’s a good girl. She teases Dean relentlessly.” She rolls her eyes.

“Dean probably does his fair share of that, too,” He chuckles, and Ellen tips her head towards Castiel, as though admitting defeat.

“I couldn’t possibly comment.” Her laughter sounds remarkably like Dean’s.

 “What was Dean like when he was younger?” Castiel asks. Ellen’s lips tilt up, a warm nostalgia sweeping over her face like waves must arc against the sand.

“He was _such_ a mother’s boy,” She giggles, beaming affectionately down at Dean.

“You knew him, when Mary was still alive?” Castiel asks, frowning slightly.

“I did,” Ellen nods in confirmation. “I was the Queen’s maid while she was alive. We had been good friends.”

“It must have been very hard for you when she died.”

Ellen’s face falls.

“It was,” She nods. “Yes. It was.”

“The attack must have been terrible,” Castiel states quietly.

“It was awful,” Ellen agrees. She sighs gently. “And the years that followed were no better. I lost my husband to the Demons a few years later in the war, not unlike the way that Dean lost his mother. It was so sudden, it felt like—like climbing up steps late at night, not seeing where your feet are falling, and you think there’s one more than there actually is. That moment of falling, like a sick kind of lurch in your stomach. Both times, so suddenly, life—or, death, even—seemed so unfair. Jo had been left without a father because of the Demons, and Dean and Sam without a mother.”

“Your husband was a soldier?” Castiel asks.

“He was almost a captain,” Ellen shakes her head. “He climbed up the ranks remarkably fast for a maidservant’s husband.” She laughs a moment. “Sir Robert was in a similar position to my husband—after that night of the attack on Hera; because of his services to the Kingdom, he was knighted and went on to become John’s most trusted advisor. But before that, he and my husband were close friends and in a similar ranking. Robert and I were friends, too.”

“Is Dean anything like his mother?” Castiel asks. Ellen’s lips twitch upwards again, and warmth slides back into her features, overtaking the regret and melancholy until they are shrouded completely and she seems almost returned to her normal, light-hearted self.

“Yes, he is,” She admits, amusement rumbling beautifully at her voice. “He spends a long time trying to be like his father, but parts of Mary will always stay.”

“What parts?” Castiel inquires.

“His kindness,” Ellen muses, “how much he cares for the people he loves. The Queen was prepared to die for those she cared about, and part of me is scared how much Dean would do for his loved ones.”

“You think he’d die for them, too?” Castiel asks, a worried frown twisting at his face.

“He was prepared to die in a Demon war just to make sure he didn’t let his father down,” Ellen sighs, clearly troubled by the truth of her own words. “I hate to think what he’d do if he thought one of _us_ was in danger.”

Castiel sighs and bites his lip. He knows that what Ellen is saying is true.

“His love and fascination for Angels is similar to Mary’s, too.” Ellen looks at Dean warmly before meeting Castiel’s gaze again. “He used to be utterly enchanted by you folks.”

“And he isn’t, now?” Castiel asks.

Ellen laughs knowingly.

“I think he’s more enchanted by just one, in particular.”

Castiel is going to ask what she means, but then his ears heat, and his insides twist sharply.

“Oh,” He says, rather ineloquently, because he doesn’t quite know how else to react.

“You’re an odd one, Castiel, if that’s alright for me to say,” Ellen chuckles.

“It’s been said,” Castiel shrugs. “And mainly by my siblings.” Ellen’s laughter is warm and appreciative, Castiel smiles at the sound. “So Dean as a child was very close to his mother?” He asks.

“Very,” Ellen confirms. “And he absolutely idolised his father.”

“But now, not so much?”

“Now,” Ellen sighs, pausing for a moment, “he certainly has less of a cause to. Which is very improper of me to say, Castiel, and I’d prefer it if you didn’t share that with anyone. But I don’t think that his lack of cause stops Dean from searching for his father’s approval.”

“He wants to make the King proud.” Castiel muses, quietly.

“Yes,” Ellen confirms. “I think that’s all he’s ever wanted. That and saving everyone.”

“What was he like with Sam?” Castiel asks. Ellen’s lips twitch upwards again, the happiness of nostalgia restored.

“Very protective,” She reminisces. “Well, he still is. But after the Demon attack; he’d spend every night in Sam’s crib trying to protect him from whatever power killed their mother. He went quiet for about a year,” Ellen frowns, now, “I remember trying so hard to get him to say something, _anything,_ but he didn’t. I don’t think he _could._ And of course, the King took it as something of a personal offense when even _he_ couldn’t get Dean to speak; but after what Dean went through, it doesn’t surprise me. Honestly, that boy’s been through far too much.”

Ellen gets up and grazes her hand tenderly against Dean’s cheek, before fetching the pail from over the fire and dipping the cloth in the now heated water.

“I should probably get some servants to rekindle that,” Ellen muses, glancing back at the flames which have died down a great deal in the time she and Castiel have been talking, “It took far too long to heat up this water.”

“I can do that,” Castiel smiles, glad to finally be able to make himself useful whilst waiting for Dean to achieve consciousness, once more.

“You don’t have to—”

“But I want to be of some help,” Castiel answers, before Ellen can protest any further. “Please, let me.”

“As you wish, Castiel,” Ellen smiles gratefully. “That’d be very kind. Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” Castiel returns, turning to the fire and placing a few more logs onto it from the basket heaped full of wood beside the fireplace. It sparks angrily as hungry flames lick at the new fuel. “Is he doing alright?” Castiel asks, turning back around to see Ellen leaning over Dean, dabbing the cloth at his forehead, hair and face.

“He’s doing just fine, I think,” Ellen smiles as Dean stirs. “Would you like to do this?” She asks, turning back to Castiel and holding the cloth out to him. Castiel’s face heats, furiously.

“I—no—sorry—I don’t think Dean would like that—” He stammers awkwardly.

“What makes you say that?” Ellen asks, frowning.

“He’s made me leave every time he’s been washed, before…” Castiel bites his lip, looking away. Embarrassment, curling at his insides, creeps in tendrils across his skin and burns at it in a way that nearly makes him itch.

“Has he?” Ellen asks, still sounding slightly confused. “He’s probably just embarrassed,” She laughs when she sees Castiel’s troubled face. “It’s not to worry. You could ask him, if he wakes up.”

“That would probably be very awkward—” Castiel swallows, his entire body tensing uncomfortably at the thought; but his heart sinks as Dean stirs again, his eyelids fluttering slowly, drowsily, open to the room and the two figures stood awkwardly in it. He doesn’t notice Castiel, beside the fire, only Ellen at his bedside.

“Good afternoon, Dean,” Ellen smiles as Dean attempts to stifle a yawn into his fist, which is to little or no avail. “Are you feeling at all hungry right now?”

Dean shrugs and nods—it’s been apparently very hard for him to keep food down as of late, so him feeling hungry, or at least, willing to eat, is probably quite a good thing.

“Where’s Cas?” He asks, and Castiel feels his heart tremble, happily: Ellen had been telling the truth when she said that Dean asks after him.

“He’s right there, sweetie,” Ellen points over to Castiel, who smiles awkwardly at Dean. Dean smiles sleepily, lopsidedly, back at the Angel.

“Hey,” Dean lifts his fingers and gives a small wave to Castiel, still blinking himself awake. Castiel has to remind himself that Dean would probably consider it immensely patronising if he knew how endearing Castiel finds him to be when Dean is in sleepy states such as these.

“Would you like Castiel to carry on doing this,” Ellen gestures to the cloth in her hand, “while I go and get you something to eat?”

Dean’s face goes a brilliant red. Castiel muses absently that it’s probably comparable to the colour of his sister’s hair.

“Aw, C’mon, Ellen—Cas doesn’t want to do that—he’s—”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Castiel retorts quickly, still feeling awkward. “Unless, of course, _you_ would mind.”

Dean’s face doesn’t go any less red.

“I just—I wouldn’t _mind—”_ His words are stilted and uncomfortable with worry.

“Great,” Ellen smiles, and Castiel, with his heart rate racing in his ears, had practically forgotten that she was present. “I’ll go down and get Dean something to eat, and Castiel can do this.”

She holds out the cloth to Castiel, who, blushing furiously, takes it from her, and sits awkwardly back down beside the place where Dean lies. Ellen doesn’t wait for him to get comfortable: she’s already left by the time Castiel manages to speak.

“Um—” He starts awkwardly, thinking of how much Dean looks as though he’d prefer to be a thousand leagues away from where he is lying right now.

“Is the water warm?” Dean asks, and Castiel is quite glad for the conversation, because it reminds him to breathe again.

“Yes,” He nods. “Ellen just heated it. It’s quite warm.”

“Can I test it?”

Castiel nods and holds up the pail, taking Dean’s hand and dipping his fingertips in it.

“Is that alright?” He asks, placing the pail carefully back onto the ground and returning Dean’s hand to his side, again.

“Yes,” Dean nods, shifting himself uncomfortably. “That’s fine thanks, Cas. It’s perfect.”

Castiel dips the cloth into the warm water and holds it above the surface, his hand hovering over the pail.

“Where should I—”

“If you do my chest and shoulders, first, and we can get on to everything else, later.”

“Okay,” Castiel nods. He squeezes the cloth over the bucket to allow the last of the excess water to drip out, before holding the cloth a few centimetres above Dean’s chest, rising and falling steadily. How can Dean be remaining so calm in moments like this? When Castiel’s frame feels like it’s about to tremble and burst? How can Dean be so _contained_?

Castiel watches as a drop of water from the cloth lands on the flat of Dean’s chest. He regards, fascinated, as it follows the steady dip of his torso, trailing slowly down his skin. He isn’t sure why, but Castiel feels inexplicably and bitterly envious of it.

“Cas?” Dean asks, frowning, slight concern twisting at his features. “Is there a problem?” He inquires.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head, blinking, and placing the cloth onto Dean’s skin. “Yes.” He frowns, correcting himself. His hand, and the cloth in it, fall back down to his side. Dean looks up at him, seeming even more confused than before. “Why have you always taken issue with me being here while you are washed?” Castiel asks. He realises that he sounds more defensive than he first intended, but doesn’t bother in correcting himself.

Dean looks down again, breaking away from Castiel’s gaze.

“Sorry…” He mumbles, and Castiel hears himself sigh.

“I’m not asking for an apology, Dean, I’m asking for an explanation.”

Dean still doesn’t look up.

“You don’t want to do this, do you, Cas?” He asks.

“What do you mean?” Castiel frowns.

“You don’t want to have to sponge me down,” Dean groans. “Look at me, I’m a wreck—you should be disgusted; you shouldn’t have to do this, you—”

“I want to.” Castiel frowns. “And I don’t think that you’re a wreck. And I most certainly am not disgusted.”

“You should be—”

“But I’m not.” Castiel says firmly.

Dean still won’t look at him.

“I’m weak,” He laments, turning his head further away. His voice grazes at his throat on its way out.

“No,” Castiel frowns. “You are _not_ weak.” Dean still won’t look at him. He cups Dean’s face in his hand. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, Dean.”

A sound bitter with mirth escapes Dean’s lips.

“Look at me, Cas.” He sighs. “I’m clearly not.”

Castiel grazes the cloth against Dean’s skin. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to persuade Dean that he _is;_ he really is.

“I’ve never thought you anything less than absolutely perfect, Dean.”

“That’s definitely not true,” Dean looks away, lip curling.

“You take responsibility for too much,” Castiel observes, finally wiping down Dean’s shoulders, now. He watches as the Human falters, then relaxes at the touch. “I once said to you that you can’t save everyone. I believe it’s time I reminded you of that, again.”

Dean exhales and closes his eyes.

“And I told _you_ that I _should_ be able to. And I’m gonna remind you of that, again.”

Castiel’s heart feels raw. Dean loathes himself.

He bends down and presses a kiss, soft, onto Dean’s lips. It lasts only a moment—by the time Dean has opened his eyes again, Castiel has pulled away.

“One day, Dean,” Castiel begins, quietly, “I will show you the stars and convince you of how I see them align in your eyes.”

Dean’s expression wavers. He pulls Castiel down to kiss him again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and if you haven't already, please check out my new story, To Build a Home!
> 
> And please comment with any kind of feedback, it's wonderful motivation for me!


	10. The Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY! the last few weeks have been a desperate rush of work/stress and I'm afraid I just had too much going on to get any kind of update done sooner, let alone a decent quality one.
> 
> Some notes about the upcoming chapter: (IMPORTANT)
> 
> \- It's not from Dean/Cas's POV so I'm sorry but you have to wait until next chapter (hopefully the 26th to make up for the delay) for more DeanCas fluff  
> \- IT'S A TOTAL MINDFUCK AT PARTS BUT I PROMISE YOU IT'S SO IMPORTANT FOR THE ACTUAL PLOT I CANNOT EMPHASISE THIS ENOUGH like okay please read it and read into it as much as you like because this is laying a whole buttload of groundwork for future plot twists so like, fucking look out.  
> \- Some parts will seem to contradict earlier parts of the story if you've been paying close attention... but it's meant to. Again, it's part of the plot. All loose ends will be tied together. Many of these things are plot catalysts. I did say earlier this fic would get complicated.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

 

 **“And like everyone, I took, I was taken**  
I dreamed  
  
I was betrayed:  
  
Earth was given to me in a dream  
In a dream I possessed it”

**—Louise Glück, from “The Seven Ages**

 

** Michael **

 

**“I shall lie there in Hades apart from you” – Euripides, Hekabe tr. Anne Carson**

 

Little Castiel bounded up to Michael as he approached the gates to the city. The child nearly tripped on almost every enormous paving stone he crossed over, hardly recovering himself each time before continuing. At little older than three summers, he was learning quickly that he was an awkward, clumsy creature, and navigated through this trait of awkwardness with a surprising amount of grace. Like now, when he jumped clean into Michael’s arms from ground level and buried his face in his brother’s neck.

 _“Michael!”_ He exclaimed happily, squeezing his brother tight. _“You’re home!”_

Michael smiled despite himself. It was rare that he smiled; he was much like little Castiel in this respect—but his youngest brother somehow always wrung these otherwise reluctant beams and grins from Michael’s lips.

 _“I am,”_ He laughed softly. _“Pray, little bird, would you go tell my youngest brother of my return? I’ve heard he’s quite beside himself with worry, and he never likes it when I’m gone.”_

Castiel giggled in Michael’s arms as he made his way through the white gates of the city, nodding to the Angels who stood watch over them. They nodded humbly back from their respective posts.

 _“I’m not a bird,”_ Castiel pulled back and wrinkled his nose at Michael.

 _“Truly?”_ Michael asked, raising his eyebrows at Castiel. _“But I had been so convinced—”_ He pretended to falter. _“Well, if you aren’t a bird, what are you? I had been convinced you’d mistaken me for a tree and were taking rest in my branches!”_

 _“No, Michael.”_ The little boy shook his head. He giggled musically, nose still wrinkled in delight at his brother’s silliness. _“I’m your_ brother _.”_

“You’re _my little brother Castiel?!”_ Michael asked, feigning incredulity. _“But last time I saw him, he was so much smaller! How long have I been gone for?”_

Castiel twittered again and pressed his tiny palms to Michael’s cheeks. Something softened in Michael’s heart, a tenderness which, for over two centuries, he had been certain he would never be able to feel again—and but for Castiel, he wouldn’t have.

 _“Four moons, brother.”_ Castiel answered. _“Father says that I‘ve been growing.”_

 _“He does, does he?”_ Michael asked. Castiel nodded in confirmation. _“And where is father now?”_

Castiel turned in Michael’s arms and pointed back towards the citadel, up the uneven, gleaming white road that led straight to the palace itself. Approaching them in the distance, Michael could indeed make out the figure of their father; his hollow, tired eyes trained on Michael and Castiel—Michael straightened up on instinct—he noted how their father’s beard had grown longer, how it appeared slightly unkempt, how today, like so many other days, he had chosen to wear black and gold, to mourn the loss of his wife.

Only his cloak fastenings were blue.

These were a bright, clear blue, that matched so perfectly with Castiel’s eyes—the eyes that were unearthly even by Angelic standards.

Michael bent his head low and grazed his nose against the dark hairs of Castiel’s head; he smelled of youth and infancy, of the rue and rosemary that the vestals had used to clean Castiel since his birth; the smell clouded his vision and he hugged Castiel close to his chest, thanking Abra that she had sent the little Angel in his arms to fill the hole in his heart that had been two centuries in the making.

By the stars themselves, Michael had thought all love and tenderness had left him for good after all that transpired those many years ago.

Castiel had grown to be more than a blessing to Michael, and was now his only true joy.

Their father came near, Michael anticipated him wanting to take Castiel into his own arms, and offered the boy to the High King.

Their father’s face softened.

The years of hurt behind his eyes, for a moment, seemed less bitter. Love flickered across his expression.

He pulled Michael close and embraced him, Castiel still in Michael’s arms so that he could not return the gesture, only hook his chin over his father’s shoulder and breathe, thinking of all the sorrow in the world and how much of it he and the High King had seen.

He prayed Castiel would see none of it.

He prayed Castiel would find real and perfect happiness, and that he would live a life untouched by the horrors of war and anguish and death and loss.

If the writings of the prophets of old were anything to go by, this would not be the case.

 _“Your youngest brother has missed you,”_ The King smiled softly, pulling back. He grazed the back of his forefinger against one of Castiel’s tiny feathers, the feathers that promised so much hope to Michael; the feathers that were a gift from Abra to promise hope to all Her people. Castiel turned to look at their father and held out one of his arms. Michael dutifully handed the little boy over to the High King. _“I have missed you, too.”_ He added, glancing at Michael’s troubled expression. Michael feigned a smile.

 _“Thank you, father.”_ He nodded his head, humbly. The High King placed Castiel softly onto the ground and began to walk slowly so that the little Angel could keep up with them, tiny hand clinging at the edge of their father’s dark cloak. The King looked down at Castel with affection.

“Did you visit Eofor?” Their father asked, looking intently at his oldest son. He spoke in Edian, the language of Hera and Eofor, so that Castiel would not be able to understand. The little boy had only just begun to learn Ceol, as it was the easiest of the Human languages to grasp—although the child was becoming more than proficient in it. Castiel, Michael had noted, saw in Humanity something fantastical and not alien, but delightfully familiar.

Michael glanced away at his father’s question; he began to feel as though he were drowning, which is exactly how he felt two centuries ago, on the most fateful day of his life, when all the stars had seemed to flicker out and the world had grown too dark and too sad and too hopeless for him to carry on.

He forged ahead, nonetheless—as he did now, in attempting to answer his father’s question.

“I did,” Michael answered. He swore, he wasn’t trying to be stiff or withdrawn, but this sort of thing just… happened, when his father wanted to broach _this_ subject with him.

“And?”

The High King was raising his eyebrows expectantly at Michael.

“And, what?”

 _“What are you speaking of?”_ Castiel asked from where he stood beneath them, craning his neck up to look at Michael and his father.

 _“Nothing important, little brother,”_ Michael attempted to answer, smiling gently at his sibling, but the High King interrupted him.

 _“Castiel, have you seen how many flowers they are selling, today?”_ He asked, bending a little to speak to Castiel. _“Look at these tiny purple ones,”_ He gestured to a stand, at which an old Vestal with violet eyes stood.

Something about her seemed unearthly, in the same way as Castiel seemed so often otherworldly to Michael.

The Vestal smiled sweetly and nodded to the High King as he passed. He returned the gesture, placing half a Zahav, a piece of gold, on her table and taking a sprig, handing it to Castiel. The half Zahav he paid for it was more than a hundred times this tiny plant’s worth, and was probably more than what the woman would earn in the rest of the day.

She stared at the High King with an awed gratitude and reverence.

 _“This is wild mountain thyme—it was one of your mother’s favourite herbs.”_ His expression turned sad as they continued walking. Castiel held the sprig tightly in his hand and stared at it, as though he were wishing back the mother he had never known, wishing her back with all of his heart. _“It is associated with magic and courage. She also liked that plant,”_ He pointed to vervain, on a healer’s table, _“We call it vervain; the hill tribes in Eofor and Hera name it ‘ferfaen’. They think it has magic in its essence. It is renowned for its healing properties. I wonder, how many other purple flowers can you spot in the market?”_

Castiel’s eyes lit up at the game, their father’s lips twitched upwards and he tossed a coin to the healer at the table with vervain, taking another sprig of it and tucking it behind Castiel’s ear. The vibrant purple set the blue of Castiel’s eyes alight in a cold, bright fire. Michael had never known his heart to be so tender as it was in that moment. Well, not since—

“Well?” The High King turned back to Michael and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Michael scowled and looked away. “Son,” The King frowned softly. His hand slipped onto Michael’s shoulder, but Michael’s heart was still hurting from his visit to Eofor.

“What would you have me tell you?” Michael asked, hopelessly.

“What did you do there?”

“What I always do,” Michael sighed.

“You spoke to no one?”

“I _saw_ no one.” Michael replied. “The Angels have not spoken to Humanity since Lucifer—” He cut himself off, looked at the ground, swallowed around the lump that had risen in his throat so suddenly. Sadness curled around his heart. “All I’m saying is, I’m not about to start speaking with them, again.”

“And you expect all of us to respect that? To do the same? You expect _Anna_ to do the same?”

“You have no desire to visit the Realms of Men.” Michael scowled. “And Anna… Well, she ought to know her duty.”

Michael’s father shook his head.

“Sometimes I fear what losing him did to you, my son.”

Michael wanted to scowl at his father’s words, something bitter and resentful coiling around his chest. Who was _he_ to speak of being changed by the loss of a loved one? Following the rebellion of Lucifer, the High King had retreated so far into himself that even the love for his own children could not find him; he paid hardly any attention to Gabriel, only a young boy; and Anna, a babe in arms at the time, only seemed to exist to him on better days—which were few and far between. The task of raising, of caring for both of them, had fallen on Michael’s shoulders. It was a weight he had no choice in bearing.

And following the death of Ahava? Michael had feared the High King would never recover, and knew that the only reason that he had not turned into a hollow shell of an Angel was because of little Castiel; because of how the infant burned with purity, his bright blue eyes like the stars that watched over their descendants on earth, of how innocently it was that the little boy’s feelings turned over hurricanes in his heart and how Castiel felt _everything_ with a fiercer passion than any Angel Michael had encountered—just as his mother had—of how Castiel was the mirror of Ahava, if not entirely in appearance, granted, then in spirit and action and soul.

“You resent what I have said?” The High King raised his eyebrows at his son. Michael licked his lips and looked down.

“It hardly matters whether I resent it or not…” Michael said slowly. “You are my father.”

“My being your father does not mean that I am right,” The High King pointed out. What did he want from Michael, what did he desire for Michael to say?

“No,” Michael frowned. “I suppose it does not.”

The High King sighed.

“What would you have me say, father?” Michael bit. He looked out at the city, despondent. “And what would you _allow_ me to say, that wasn’t out of turn?”

“Sometimes I fear your heart bore too much, when you were too young, Michael,” The High King shook his head. “You have turned in on yourself, and not in the way our people would respect. You’ve become introspective; you’ve buried your soul inside your chest. And all because of what you lost.”

Again, Michael scowled; the King was being a hypocrite; pointing out Michael’s faults when his own were so obvious and so staggering.

But what the High King said was true, and it burned Michael’s heart to think on it.

“I loved him.” Michael said, voice small. He stared down at the ground. Two centuries, and tears still scorched at his eyes, white-hot pinpricks of pain. Two centuries, and his heart still broke.

“I know,” The King said. His hand came to rest on Michael’s shoulder.

“I loved _both_ of them,” Michael corrected himself, ashamed of the way his voice trembled. “Why did I have to choose? And why did I end up with neither?”

“Abra knows, my son,” The King looked sad, too; the kind of despondency for which Michael knew there was no cure. “Just as she knows your sorrow, and feels it with you. And when she calls you home, you will find perfect happiness and rest—just as all of us will. Let that be your hope, and your guiding star. No matter what you’ve lost.”

Michael looked down to Castiel. Merchants and shopkeepers working at the stalls had given him still _more_ flowers to tuck behind his ear and loop through his hair. His heart felt raw with how he loved his youngest brother. The High King looked down to Castiel, too, and a rare, genuine smile flickered at his features. Michael knew his father’s heart. He knew that Castiel held joint first place in it above all other creatures—no matter what it was his entering the world had cost, and no matter how Gabriel joked that Lucifer had been the most beloved son.

He wondered just how beautiful Abra’s plans for the little boy would be.

 

* * *

 

** Mary **

 

 **“… this is the world.**  
I’m not in it.  
It is beautiful.”

**—        Mary Oliver, from “October,” Blue Iris: Poems and Essays**

 

Down beside the stream again, trailing her fingers delicately through the waters, Mary hoped beyond hope that the doe and her fawn would return to drink. Thinking about it last night, she had decided that deer were, by far, the most wonderful creatures in all the universe: gentle and timid to a fault; embodying everything that she believed about being kind and tender toward everything one encountered. Perhaps, if she studied them hard enough, for long enough, she would become as soft and compassionate as they were. Already she was not unkind; and indeed had a headstart over many in the four kingdoms of the Earthly Realms—but her encounter with the Heran the night before had proven beyond a doubt that she certainly had a long way to go.

Something sad and bitter curled in her heart at the memory of the Heran boy who had been so incredibly unkind to her—and, the thought making her sadder by the minute as she reflected on it further—that she had been so incredibly unkind to in return.

Why return cruelty with cruelty? It was as useless and futile as pouring oil onto a fire in an attempt to put it out.

She knew how important it was to treat guests with respect; the vitality of hospitality and generosity—but never before last night had reminding herself of these truths seemed so difficult.

Perhaps it was because of the differences in their socialisation—perhaps Mary was doomed to be unable to stand _any_ Heran, not just the one she encountered last night. They were a people so different to her; their values stood so staunchly in opposition to one another. Could she be blamed for lashing out in panic and surprised when she had encountered someone so different to herself?

In any case, his comments about the state of her dress had so upset her that she had burst into tears the moment that her mother had chosen to chastise her for her muddy appearance as she entered into her family’s quarters, emotions still grated raw from the argument. Normally she was awfully resilient to both her parent’s criticisms—yet once again, last night had proven to be an exception.

But really, what did it matter how she looked? What difference did it make if her dress was caked in earth or in starlight after a day’s wandering through the woods? All that mattered to Mary was that she felt happy—and that she did others no harm—and considering the fact that she both washed and made most of her clothing herself, it seemed innocent enough that she be the one to make it dirty through hours and hours of ambling through the forest. Speaking of which, Mary thought as she looked down at her dress, the hem of which was once again coated in damp earth; she would have to change quickly when she arrived back at the castle for fear of her mother rebuking her for her grubby appearance yet again.

But who could care? Mary wasn’t looking to impress anyone, much as it grated her father to think of, much as it caused her poor, restless mother sleepless night after sleepless night to know. She had no need to look pretty and tidy; had no one to look pretty and tidy for—and in any case, as she had pointed out on numerous occasions, if she ever _were_ to marry—which was unlikely, at best—she would want whoever it was she married to like _all_ aspects of her character—including the part of her that adored wandering through the trees just after it had rained and kicking up the muddy ground. She would _also_ want them to find her beautiful at any and every given moment, for the content of her heart and soul—not just if her clothing was immaculate and face free of dirt smudged over it.

A rustle in the thicket dragged Mary from her thoughts—perhaps it was the deer and her fawn!—She peered about, her eyes wide and desperate, excited; scanning, scanning, scanning—

 “Hello again.”

The voice nearly made her jump out of her skin.

Mary gasped and turned around only to see the rude boy from yesterday grinning at her. Her jaw clenched.

“Woah,” He raised his hands in surrender, laughing. “If looks could kill, I’d be lying on the muddy ground right now.” He should have left it at that. He didn’t. “A bit like you already _are_ ,” He smirked down at Mary from where he stood, on the raised tree roots above Mary’s head. He probably thought it some wonderful symbolism that he was higher up than Mary was, considering the air of superiority he radiated with every second he stood beside the stream that Mary loved so dearly and had always kept so secret.

Bitterness and melancholy wound themselves across Mary’s heart at the thought of this arrogant young man coming and invading her sanctuary in the forest, kept to herself for so long.

She glanced around the clearing, paying close attention to the place the deer had both emerged from and disappeared behind the day before. No sign of either the deer or her fawn. Mary turned to glare back at the boy—what had he said his name was again?—

“John,” The boy smirked, as if reading her mind. “My name is John. And you seem a little lost for words, today. Is there any reason for that?”

“None at all, John,” Mary glared, still trying to balance patience with letting the Heran know that he was very much unwelcome here. “Only that that’s twice now that I’ve been trying to gain some peace beside this stream; and twice that you’ve interrupted it and scared away the surrounding wildlife.”

“Twice?” The boy—John—raised his eyebrows at Mary. “Granted I did just now, but when was the other time?”

Mary ground her teeth together at the fact that the boy still had not apologised for _any_ of his actions towards her, let alone for his disturbing her and possibly scaring off her deer.

“Yes, twice.” Mary confirmed, making her tone firm enough to let her intruder know that there was no room for debate here. “First, when you and all your comrades came storming into the citadel so loud that you could be heard a thousand leagues away, I’m sure, and then just now, with you sneaking up on me so rudely.”

“Comrades?” The boy repeated, raising his eyebrows even further, if that could be possible. “You call them my comrades?”

“Well, what else ought I call them?”

The boy chuckled and shook his head. The sunlight dappled over his tanned face and made his eyes shimmer strangely in the forest.

“It is a fair enough title, I suppose. They’re certainly comrades of mine, though few people would think to call them that.”

Mary squinted at him, uncomprehending.

“Are you quite done, now? I’d like to be alone again, if it please you.”

The boy bent down to crouch on the roots he had been standing on. Though Mary still sat far below him, in a hollow in the ground beside the stream, it did at least mean making eye contact was less of a strain.

“You like being alone, then?” He asked. His voice was quiet, now.

“Very much so.” Mary answered dully, hoping the Heran would catch the hint she dropped so clearly and leave her in peace.

“Me too,” The boy nodded.

“You don’t seem like the type to be an introvert.” Mary wrinkled her nose.

“And I’m not,” The Heran laughed honestly. “But then again, you don’t seem the type to enjoy sitting in earth, watching out for animals. Yet here you are.”

“You don’t know me.” Mary protested. “You don’t know what I do and don’t do, and you don’t know which of those things are unexpected. You know _nothing._ ”

“I suppose I ought to do my best to remember that to avoid offending you again,” The Heran rubbed the back of his neck, looking down.

“Do.” Mary replied shortly.

“I didn’t catch your name, last night.” The boy smiled.

“I didn’t give it.” Mary answered. She made a point of not looking at him.

“I thought so,” The boy chuckled. “But could I get it now?”

“I doubt it.”

“Have I done something else to offend you, good lady? You seem to be behaving awfully cold towards me, yet I sense that it’s not normally in your character to do so.”

Mary looked up at him, finding herself more upset than ever.

He chose _now_ to speak to her with respect?!

“It’s more a question of what you _haven’t_ done to offend me,” She retorted. “And honestly, the only respectful thing I can think of you saying to me was your referring to me as a lady, just now. In contrast, the first _word_ you said to me was a curse; the first sentence you spoke in my direction was one of chastisement, when I had done nothing worthy of scorn or derision, least of all yours—when I rejected your advances, you treated me with contempt—so I ask _you,_ John, what did _I_ do to merit being treated with so little respect? Who are you in your own universe, that you consider it so acceptable to enter mine uninvited and bring with you so much _cruelty?”_

The Heran— _John—_ looked down, apparently ashamed.

“I am John Wi—” He coughed once into a closed fist. He shook his head, thinking better of whatever it was he was about to say. “It hardly matters. I’m sorry.” He laughed again—he seemed to do this rather a lot, Mary observed. “Sorry. That’s who I am—I’m sorry.”

It was a terrible joke. At least it wasn’t a belittling one.

“So what _is_ your name?” He asked after a long silence.

“I honestly believe that it’s absolutely none of your business.” Mary replied sincerely. “If you’ll excuse me.” She stood, brushing herself off, more for effect than because she actually cared for the soil covering her skirt.

“You’re going?” The boy asked.

“Why are you so concerned?” Mary frowned. Then she stopped short, a terrible thought occurring to her. “Did you follow me here?” She asked, horrified.

“What?” The boy asked, wrinkling his nose. “No.” He shook his head. Mary pulled an unconvinced face. “Okay,” He admitted. “But only because I saw you—and I wanted to apologise for how I behaved last night. I was very rude—and I’m a guest, and—”

“I’m afraid that I can’t forgive you.” Mary shook her head.

“What?” He frowned, taken aback. Clearly, the Heran had not been expecting this response. “Why?”

“I just can’t.” She shrugged. “I meant what I said about me having no respect for you. I appreciate the fact that you said sorry, but I don’t doubt that part of you apologising was very much for your own benefit, not mine. And I can’t help but resent that. I also can’t help but resent certain aspects of your character.”

“What aspects?” The boy frowned.

“Your rudeness, for one.” Mary replied, matter-of-factly.

“You know,” John glared, scrambling up after Mary as she made her way back to the castle, “you’re _very_ stuck up.”

Mary ignored him.

“And stubborn.” He added, as though this ought to hurt Mary’s feelings quite awfully. “And self-righteous and turgid and pretentious—”

“You know that those last three are all essentially synonyms.”

“They are _not,”_ John bit. “And stop correcting me! You’re just proving me right—God, you’re a nightmare!”

“And you,” Mary stopped short, turning to the Heran, “are a pompous, unkind, impolite, loud, arrogant, lewd, vainglorious _lout—”_

“And you’re a hypocritical, insincere, anti-social—”

_“Anti-social?!”_

“Yes, antisocial!” John shouted back at Mary louder than she had at him. Vision blurry, she spun back around and began stomping back to Castle Eofor. “Who the _hell_ takes issue with sharing their name?!” He shouted after her.

“I pray, ‘Sorry’ John of Hera,” Mary called over her shoulder. “Next time you see me walking to the forest, minding my own business, won’t you mind yours, also, and _leave me the fuck alone?!”_

If John bellowed back a response, Mary didn’t catch it over the blood whistling through her ears and the undergrowth crunching beneath her stomping feet.

 

* * *

 

** Ellen **

 

“Hello, beautiful boy,” Ellen beamed, lifting a silent Dean onto her lap. He barely fit, now, considering his size combined with the baby in her belly. Ellen rubbed the bump distractedly, thinking of the world she was bringing her child into and whether it ought to be considered a sin to bear a babe into a place where pain and suffering seemed so constant. And the suffering in this world _was_ constant. No child seemed to know this truth better than the quiet little boy sat on her lap.

Ellen had easily come to love him and his brother as her own.

He was getting big, now, quick and determined, but still silent. He had not spoken since the death of his mother, and the King took it as personal offence that he could not summon so much as a sound from his son’s lips.

“Would you like a story? How are you feeling today?”

Dean pressed his small lips together and nodded, not looking into Ellen’s eyes. He tugged at her hair softly a moment before sliding off he lap and trotting towards the little set of drawers beside his bed. He slid a book off the top of them, on his very tiptoes to reach it, before glancing over to his brother’s ridiculous four-poster crib and poking his finger through the wooden bars. A ghost of a smile etched at his features at the childish laughter of Sammy, still an infant, still unknowing of all the sadness and horror his older brother had endured.

Then, Dean reached into the crib and picked his baby brother up, stroking at the top of his head and gazing earnestly into the infant’s eyes. He struggled over to Ellen again, careful to be as tender as anyone could be with Sam, before sliding the book onto Ellen’s lap and sitting at her feet.

Ellen sighed and smiled, getting up off her chair and sliding it back, struggling down to the floor to sit beside Dean.

He was so like his mother.

And how she missed Mary, missed her every day, missed her humility and friendliness and was only further reminded of it by King John’s arrogance and distance.

She glanced down at the book Dean had handed to her and smiled knowingly at the sight. It was no surprise that Dean should want this story to be told to him; he never wanted any tale to stray outside its topic. Angels.

The little boy was not old enough, nor corrupted enough, to know how strange a thing it was that Ellen knew how to read. Nor did he know the kindness it was his mother had given to Ellen when teaching her.

Now, reading to Mary’s son, Ellen returned that kindness, in this and in every other way she raised Dean as one of her own.

Of course, it was hardly a chore, even if Dean never spoke and would cry if asked to remove himself from his brother’s crib at night, even if Dean stole knives from the kitchen, to protect him and his brother at night, even if Dean scowled at strangers whom he seemed to suspect, inexplicably, were linked to the death of his mother.

This story was a good one, several centuries old, about an Angel who fell in love with a Human. It fascinated Dean, and the stars upon its cover, and the drawings of wings that marked each chapter enchanted his little green eyes so clearly that it made love blossom in Ellen’s heart and made her all but forget how troublesome a child he could be, and made her think only of all that the little boy felt, had felt, would continue to feel as he fought for the safety of his brother.

Stories, it seemed, were Dean’s only sanctuary.

And if he found solace in the thought of Angels protecting him, then Ellen wasn’t about to take it away from him.

Dean deserved any kind of solace he could find.

She turned the cover of the book.

 _“All sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story,”_ She began, reading the line she had read so many times before aloud to Dean. She looked up at the little boy, still holding his brother in his arms, little Sammy resting on his lap. Dean gazed up at her, but seemed to somehow stare through Ellen, and into something else. _“Tragedy is woven into us, and so are words, and so is love. Pour all three together and stories grow from the ashes of our pain. This is how we redeem ourselves. This is how I have forgiven you.”_

An Angel in love with a Human. Ellen snorts softly—half snorts, half sighs. Now there was a thought. A thought that, she had no doubt, enchanted Dean beyond belief. It was in his blood to love the fantastical, not to dream of a life better for himself but for those he loved; and so he told no stories to himself. Ellen had to tell them for him.

 

* * *

 

** John **

 

The party was leaving today, ready to return to Hera.

It was the end of what had been an almost year-long tour around the Earthly Kingdoms, visiting each of the capital cities and wishing their rulers well, forming trade links and alliances with each kingdom and ruling families, following their kindness at his crowning a year earlier. It ended in Eofor, and John was glad for it.

He would be home in Hera in no time at all; would be able to do what kings were actually _meant_ to do: _rule—_ and he would be able to forget all the awkward, forced cordialities of his interactions with royalty from far more sensitive kingdoms than his own.

What was their obsession with politeness and tradition and ceremony? What purpose did it serve? John hated it—sure, he loved the pomp and vigour of royal celebrations, loved the feasting and the rowdy sound of drunken men’s laughter, he loved tourneys and duels and the roar of excited crowds at these events; their cheers as he and his men stormed into their kingdom on horseback, waving banners as pretty girls from windows and balconies above their heads threw confetti made of everything from flowers to silk down upon them.

He also loved travelling to new cities with new brothels and new whores, meeting new mistresses or courtesans or whatever the fuck it was they wanted to call themselves, loved the way he could fuck any woman in any city in the world because of how they threw themselves at him for his looks, his build, his title, his riches.

All of that admitted, John still hated the stale interactions he had been forced to have with the nobility from all the Earthly Realms. He hated how fake and insincere it all seemed; wished he could be out hunting or sparring with his men, wished he could be drinking golden ales while pretty women danced around him in tattered dresses in a tavern in the citadel, wished he could be anywhere but trapped in awkward, staged conversation with the king-or-queen-of-wherever-the-fuck-it-was he stood in at that particular moment.

He also hated how everyone who greeted him pretended to be overjoyed to be stood in the same fucking city as him; hated the insincerity of their well-wishing, of their beamed greetings, of their tight-lipped smiles. All of it was fake, he loathed all who greeted him outside of his own men, and liked them only because he had reason to, because they were loyal and boisterous and hardly cared for his rank, only how well he could wield a sword and shoot a bow and arrow and command an army.

But there were two exceptions to these rules, in Eofor: the rule about all girls of his age under the sun wanting to fuck him, and the rule about all the people John met in these kingdoms pretending to adore him while he, in turn, silently hated them.

These two exceptions came in the form of one girl, a girl who seemed about his age; a girl who liked to sit in the damp soil beside streams and wait for animals to pass her by; a girl with mud on her dress who couldn’t seem to give a shit about it but who still somehow found the time, and need, to weave flowers into her golden hair; a girl with eyes the colour of lavender, who glared at John with all the contempt in the world, who seemed gloriously unaware of his rank and title which meant that she had been paying absolutely _no_ attention to the proceedings at Eofor, or to the affairs of the Earthly Kingdoms; a girl who hated John with the flames of a thousand furnaces and who he found himself… Fuck, well, honestly—he found himself adoring her.

Hell, she hadn’t even realised who John was when he had finally introduced himself, hadn’t worked out that he was _John Winchester,_ the boy King of Hera, even when he’d practically spelled his birthname out for her.

She wasn’t stupid, she just didn’t care.

Which, naturally, and much to his own contempt, translated into John caring about her, and for her, a great fucking deal. Despite the fact that he’d interacted with her all of fucking twice during his stay.

And today, on the last day of his time in Eofor, John stood awkwardly on the steps of the palace, surrounded by his closest men, the whole city gathered below him. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for a trace of golden hair, perhaps with wildflowers laced through it as it had been the first time he saw it.

King Victor gave the usual speech; about it being such an honour to host the Heran King and his men, about how glad he was that the pre-established trade-routes would continue under the new Heran King’s rule, how fortunate the earthly kingdoms were to bear witness to such a young and valiant king of the most powerful kingdom in all the Earthly Realms; he reminded John of their kingdoms’ shared heritage and language, and then prayed out to the ‘Mother and Father Gods’—whoever the fuck they were—that the years of John’s rule would be kind and peaceful and that _all_ the lands around Hera would be blessed also…

John groaned internally.

Then he stepped forward and thanked the kingdom for its hospitality, flashing his charming smile to the younger, prettier girls in the crowd, promising to visit, and often—giggles, from the girls, who all beamed at him, and a bark of laughter from Victor sounded at this gesture.

But then John’s eyes fell on a figure away in the distance. She stood under a still-blossoming peach tree, the late-summer sun high behind her. Her hair looked a more beautiful and pure gold than the crown that was placed upon John’s head one year before.

He couldn’t make out her expression, and he just about managed to stammer over the last of his speech, distracting himself from the beautiful girl under the tree by winking down at a few of the young noblewomen close to him, who beamed and giggled and swooned in the usual, half-sincere manner. King Victor laughed again.

Then John and his men descended the steps—the crowd parted for them without even needing to be commanded, it was almost eerie and mythical—and John hoisted himself up on his red stallion, ready waiting for him. He was now only a matter of yards away from her, the girl from the forest—it seemed as though she had not expected him to come so close, she took a stumbled step back—but why, now, was she not making her loathing towards him perfectly clear?

He kicked at his horse. He stared at the girl. She stared back at him, obviously mortified, and—he couldn’t help it, though she probably ended up hating him even _more—_ he burst into a fit of laughter at the terrified, embarrassed expression on her face.

Had she really had _no_ idea?

And did the idea of John being a king really scare the girl so very much? What did she think he would do in response to her rudeness? He laughed again at the thought, still staring at her, kicked his horse again and broke out into a gallop. His men followed after him in a thunder of horseshoes. The crowds of Eofor cheered behind him. All of them, he was sure, except for the girl with golden hair and eyes the colour of wildflowers.

 

* * *

 

** Mary **

 

 _King_ John.

She gaped at the horses, retreating into the distance, knowing that leading the party was a rude, loud, cocky young man whom days earlier, she had literally told to _fuck off_. And she _never_ normally cursed.

And this boy was King of Hera, the largest and most powerful of all the Earthly Kingdoms.

_Shit._

She was going to be executed, she knew it—she had seen how poor the boy’s temper could be, and that boy sat upon a _throne,_ a throne that commanded hordes of men, and she had insulted him, and his kingdom, multiple times, all upon their first meeting.

But worse than all of that; and the boy probably did this out of deliberate cruelty, an act of at least initial revenge for Mary’s rudeness to him, he had _laughed_ at her. Cruelly, voice filled with mirth. He had _laughed_ at her, laughed in front of everyone, and now everyone with half a brain stared at her, wondering what exactly it was she could have done to earn such derision from the King of Hera.

‘Everyone’ here included her parents, who glared at her with a new kind of distaste.

Mary wanted nothing more than the ground to swallow her up.

She hated King John, hated him for embarrassing her so, for thinking _this_ an appropriate act of revenge for her actions towards him. She would rather be punished physically, be beaten, be exiled, than be left to face this kind of emotional turmoil brought about by _his_ mockery of her. His mockery of her in front of the entire citadel.

“Well,” A warm, familiar voice laughed behind her, the sound melodious as one who knows a language foreign and strange and enchanting, as well as a familiar one. “If I didn’t know any better, Lady Campbell, I’d say the Boy King just laughed at you.”

Mary turned to see Cai and wrinkled her nose at him.

“I wasn’t aware the two of you had met?” He asked, raising his eyebrows with cool amusement as he leant against the tree Mary stood under. Mary bristled under the gaze of half the citadel, even if many of them slowly began to turn away and talk of the affairs of the day. Many of them continued to stare and speak in hushed tones of what it is the Polymath’s daughter could have done to earn the derision of the new King of Hera.

“Only twice,” Mary frowned, resisting the urge to frown, “and very briefly.”

“I see.”

“And honestly, I rather wish I _hadn’t.”_

“Why’s that?” Cai asked, chuckling. “Because he laughed at you?”

“Because he’s an ass,” Mary bit, “and because I didn’t realise he was a _King.”_

“Oh,” Cai smirked. “Well. That’ll do it.”

“It did it,” Mary agreed distractedly, glancing about her to the eyes still trained on her blushing form, not quite knowing what the ‘it’ Cai referred to here meant.

“Hey, ignore them,” Cai’s hand brushed across her shoulder. “Half the girls are jealous that it wasn’t _them_ the king was paying attention to, and half the boys wish it was them _you_ were paying attention to.”

Mary giggled, despite herself.

“There’s such thing as the wrong kind of attention, Cai,” She pointed out. A smile settled on her friend’s features.

“I’m sure there is,” He agreed. “But I wouldn’t know about it.”

“And I suppose you always get the good kind of attention?” Mary raised her eyebrows. Cai grinned.

“Have you _seen_ me, Campbell?” Cai asked incredulously. “Of _course_ I only get good attention. All the men and women in this city are in love with me.” He grinned. “All but you. How is that?”

“I’m naturally averse to arrogance,” Mary answered matter-of-factly. Cai chuckled again, deep and low and genuine.

“Of course you are. Which is why King John’s advances were so sorely rejected, I expect.”

“He didn’t make any advances—” Mary attempts to protest, quickly, but cuts herself off, blushing.

“So he _did_ make advances?” Cai asked, eyebrows raised in shock. “How did you respond?”

Mary pressed her lips together.

“Destroyed all his dreams of marrying a pretty girl from Eofor, I expect?” Cai tittered. Mary rolled her eyes. “And now you’ve gone quiet on me?” He asked. “Really, Campbell, I thought you were more mature than that.” Mary twitched a reluctant smile. Cai grinned happily. “Or should I call you Winchester?” He asked, suddenly feigning seriousness.

Mary huffed.

“Only if you want your tongue cut out.”

“Mary Winchester,” Cai teased. “Now _that_ has a nice ring to it.”

“I’d beg to differ.”

“Would you?” Cai asked. “And why’s that?”

“Because he’s an ass, and there’s a reason I spurned him.”

“So a royal wedding is off the table?”

“Entirely,” Mary deadpanned. “Entirely off the table.”

Cai’s expression softened into something relieved.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

 

* * *

 

 

** Gabriel **

 

**“Bitter the waters of memory,**

**bitter their teeth and cold lips.”**

**—        Charles Wright, from Scar Tissue; “Inland Sea”**

 

Shouting, and the clatter of blunted swords. Gabriel followed the sound until he reached his brothers’ quarters.

Michael, tanned, with jet hair cut short, and with feminine, elegant features, piercing blue eyes and a charming smile, sparred with pale, sandy-haired, gray-eyed Lucifer; features heavier and less delicate than those of his twin’s. With lower cheekbones, fast where Michael was strong, strong where Michael was fast, bold where Michael was reserved, and reserved where Michael was bold, the pair were such stark opposites that they matched one another perfectly; Michael’s body lithe where Lucifer’s was unyielding, Lucifer’s actions calculated where Michael’s were instinctive.

Both of them laughed, and so Gabriel did as well, the sound he made hardly breaking against the waves of noise the older pair emitted, swords thudding dully against each other, feet echoing in the Prince’s chambers against the alabaster stone, window opened, wind whipping through the room, laughter tumbling around it.

It was all so natural and such a flurry of sound, sight, noise, feeling, that Gabriel was carried away completely, caught up in the flashes of Lucifer’s glittering white and red wings, the shimmers of Michael’s silver and gold feathers, their grinning expressions, their shouts and laughter, so guileless and sincere and happy.

He stepped towards them—perhaps they had a spare sword for Gabriel, so that he may join, too? He hoped so.

 _“Your footwork is all wrong, Michael,”_ Lucifer laughed. _“Are you_ making it up? _What is that you’re doing?”_

 _“Beating you,”_ Michael countered, returning his brother’s cocky grin. _“Where did you learn those moves, Luc? Gabriel’s vestals?”_

Gabriel beamed at the mention of his name, not quite understanding the meaning of the insult. He stepped between them, grinning up at Michael.

 _“Do you have a sword for me?”_ He asked, eyes trained on Michael’s face, his high cheekbones, his delicate, sharp features, the soft twist of his smile.

 _“A sword for you?”_ Michael repeated, crouching down to be at eye level with his little brother. _“But if I gave you a sword, neither Lucifer nor I would stand a chance!”_

Gabriel giggled, pushing Michael playfully. Michael feigned shock, gasping and frowning theatrically at his brother.

 _“Did you just strike the son of the High King, little Angel?”_ He rose, pulling a disgraced face, shaking his head solemnly. Gabriel could not contain his laughter.

 _“I am son of the High King, too!”_ Gabriel exclaimed. Michael only allowed a smile to twitch at his face for a second before he was playing the fierce, sombre role he had taken on, again.

 _“Enough, Gabriel,”_ Lucifer sighed behind him. _“Michael and I were practicing, and there’s a snowstorm outside, so we can hardly train_ there. _Leave us._ ”

 _“But I want to—“_ Gabriel faltered, put out. Michael didn’t allow it, just as he never allowed Gabriel’s sadness. He crouched down to Gabriel’s level again.

_“How old are you, little Angel?”_

_“I have seen four Autumns.”_

“Four _Autumns?”_ Michael repeated, acting incredulous. Gabriel smiled reluctantly again. _“And you say you are son of the High King, also?”_

 _“Michael, enough playing,”_ Lucifer rejoined, no playfulness nor teasing in his tone.

 _“Are you son of the High King?”_ Michael asked, ignoring his twin with no more than glance upwards in Lucifer’s direction, communicating something that Gabriel didn’t understand, though he recognised the look Lucifer was shot as a reprimanding one.

 _“I am,”_ Gabriel confirmed. Michael smiled softly.

 _“Well then,”_ He sighed, standing, _“I suppose it_ is _a little too much to have you executed for your impudence,”_ Gabriel giggled again at Michael’s words. _“So instead,”_ Michael turned away, picking something up of his bed and turning back to Gabriel—it was a wooden sword!— _“We must duel for our honour!”_ He declared dramatically, handing Gabriel the wooden sword. _“At your ready, warrior!”_

Gabriel burst into a fit of laughter, mimicking Michael’s stance, even as Lucifer protested behind him.

_“Michael, is this really wise—“_

_“He wants to play, Luc.”_

_“And I want to_ practice. _Which are you going to prioritise?”_

Michael only shot Lucifer a grin before lunging forward slowly, providing more than enough time for Gabriel to hit the blunt metal sword away and swing at Michael with his own wooden blade.

He thumped it onto Michael’s leg, pretending to cut it off, and Michael doubled over melodramatically with a cry of pretend agony, shouting loudly.

 _“Oh, you have wounded me!”_ He exclaimed, clutching at his leg. _“You’ve robbed me of a limb_ and _of my honour!”_ His shouts echoed around the castle chamber. _“Defeated by a child of only_ four _Autumns!”_ Gabriel could not contain his laughter. _“You shall pay for this, little Angel!”_ Michael knelt on the ground, raising his blunt sword again, slowly. Gabriel beamed and lifted his wooden blade again.

An angry shout sounded from the door and made both Michael and Gabriel jump near enough out of their skin.

 _“Michael!”_ Their mother bellowed, face alive with fury. _“You_ dare _raise a blade to your brother’s head?!”_

 _“Mother,”_ Michael stood up quickly, face falling, _“it was a game—“_

Their mother paced lividly over to Gabriel and pulled him up into her arms, despite Gabriel’s protestations, arms an iron grip of protectiveness around him, as if she honestly believed Michael could _ever_ hurt Gabriel.

 _“A_ game?!” She repeated, as if even the notion were a ridiculous one.

 _“Mama,”_ Gabriel protested, _“he’s telling the truth—“_

 _“And he, of sixteen years, nearly a man, duelled a child of four years, giving him nothing but a wooden sword?!”_ She spat. _“While Michael wielded a real blade?!”_

 _“My blade is dull, mother,”_ Michael objected hopelessly, eyes filled with sadness, as though he already knows his disputes at this injustice to be futile. _“It’s blunt, look,”_ He raised it to show her, but their mother cried out in offense.

_“And now you raise it to me?!”_

_“He was showing you, mama,”_ Gabriel squirmed again in his mother’s arms, but she would not relinquish him.

 _“Gabriel is too young for a metal blade,”_ Michael continued. _“He would not be able to carry it, so I gave him a wooden one instead—it was only play—“_

 _“I_ did _tell you to stop, Michael,”_ Lucifer pointed out, shaking his head at Michael. Gabriel let out a broken, upset noise at the injustice of the situation.

 _“You only wanted to duel!”_ He accused his older brother. _“Michael was just playing with me!”_

 _“Lucifer was being responsible!”_ Their mother exclaimed. Gabriel pushed at her shoulders, attempting to force her to put him down. _“Gabriel, you are my darling baby boy and he nearly_ hurt _you—“_

_“He is four, mama—“_

_“And you are nearly a man! How could you_ think _to duel an infant!”_

 _“He’s not a man!”_ Gabriel frowned. _“He’s sixteen, mama, and I am not an infant!”_

Their mother brushed a strand of red-blonde hair back from her face.

 _“Gabriel, I consider_ your _safety in all of this—the only other person who seems to do so is_ Lucifer— _honestly,”_ She turned back to Michael. _“I pray you never come to rule a kingdom. You have no sense of duty. You would do better to abandon your title altogether than continue along this vein—”_

Michael hung his head; Gabriel could recognise tears burning at his older brother’s eyes as he dropped the blunt sword in his hand with a clatter on the floor.

_“I am sorry, mother—“_

_“Pick that up,”_ Was all the response he got, that and a dry roll of removed brown eyes from their mother.

Michael’s face seemed to catch alight.

 _“Mama,”_ Gabriel frowned in his mother’s arms, but she wouldn’t let him move. _“That isn’t fair—”_

 _“He dropped it, so he ought to pick it up,”_ Lucifer pointed out, but still bent down to pick up the sword and hand it to his brother. _“It’s fair enough.”_

_“Why is it that you have so much trouble following my instructions, yet Lucifer has none?”_

_“Mama,”_ Gabriel protested again, and finally, she put him down—but only, it seemed, because the High King, their father, had entered.

As usual, he seemed to gaze right through his wife and stare only at his three children.

 _“Boys,”_ He paced forward, resting a palm on Michael’s shoulder. Michael straightened up at the touch. _“What’s all this commotion?”_

 _“Michael tried to attack our younger son,”_ Gabriel’s mother stated, voice filled with hardly-repressed anger. Their father turned to look at her. His eyes glazed over.

 _“_ Our son _tried to attack his brother?”_ He asked.

 _“I didn’t—”_ Michael seemed terrified, gazing pleadingly up at his father’s gray eyes with his own beseeching ones watery and brighter than ever.

 _“I’m sure of it,”_ Their father replied simply, casting a tired look over to his wife.

“Really, _father_ — _”_ Michael appeared to sense a distance in his father’s response, and implored him further.

_“I believe you, Michael.”_

Michael seeped with relief so thoroughly it seemed almost as though he trembled with it.

Their father quietened his wife’s indignant protests with a look, before turning back to his children.

 _“Now you’ll remember that we visit Eofor, tomorrow?”_ He asked them. Lucifer rolled his eyes.

 _“Yes,”_ He sighed. Their father’s gaze flickered with amusement.

 _“Lucifer,”_ He chuckled, _“it won’t be such a chore. You’ve never met Humans before—who knows, you may like them.”_

 _“I doubt it,”_ Lucifer played with his sword, spinning it in his hand. _“Their lives are short, their actions are brutish_ — _”_

 _“I’m excited, father,”_ Michael interjected. _“I think I should like to meet a Human_ — _”_

 _“You’ll be meeting a great many of them,”_ Their father smiled. Michael nodded, smile dimmed by the presence of their mother, who took this moment to bristle her white and yellow wings. Gabriel glanced up to her pale face, to see eyes so distant as they fixed themselves on Michael that Gabriel could hardly believe she loved Michael like a son at all. _“In any case, I thought I ought to remind you that we will be flying tomorrow morning, at dawn. Do not be late.”_

 _“But father,”_ Gabriel frowned, _“I cannot fly.”_

 _“No,”_ Their father agreed, turning to look at Gabriel. _“Your mother will carry you.”_ He glanced up at his wife. She nodded curtly, and seemed to think to say something, but then decided not to. She left the room.

 _“Dawn, Michael,”_ Their father repeated. _“And Lucifer,”_ He said. _“Both of you must be packed_ — _”_

 _“We have servants for a reason, father_ — _”_

Lucifer’s comment earned him a hard look. Then their father chuckled and clapped both his oldest sons on the shoulders, before leaving, also.

 _“Well, tomorrow ought to be pleasantly shit,”_ Lucifer commented drolly, sighing and kicking at the floor. Michael frowned thoughtfully.

 _“What makes you say that? I can’t_ wait _to meet a Human for the first time.”_

_“I think I’d rather feed myself to vultures.”_

Michael gazed, clearly troubled, at Lucifer as he left after their father, before glancing down at Gabriel, who tried to smile warmly at his older brother.

 _“I thought you fought very valiantly, Michael,”_ Gabriel stated. Michael’s lips twitched reluctantly upward into a warm smile.

 _“Thank you, little Angel,”_ He nodded, kneeling down to Gabriel’s level. _“Though you robbed me of my leg, I must compliment you on your technique. You’re a fearsome warrior.”_

 _“Yes,”_ Gabriel agreed matter-of-factly. _“I pride myself on it.”_

Michael burst into a fit of laughter.

 _“Whatever else you are, Gabriel, you’re the funniest Angel I’ve ever met,”_ He grinned. _“If you decide not to rule a kingdom, join a troupe of actors. There are too many Tragedies being performed, I think we need a few Comedies, and need you to act in them.”_

Gabriel beamed at his brother’s words.

_“So you think I’m funny?”_

_“I think you’re_ hilarious.”

And strangely, Gabriel thought, it meant the world that light-hearted, merry, kind Michael should say so. He didn’t confess this. Only told Michael he was sure he was right, which earned another bout of sincere laughter from the older Angel.

He hoped that Michael would enjoy the visit to the Human Kingdom. He deserved to, Gabriel thought: deserved to find comfort there when he seemed so estranged from his own home.

Gabriel thought better than to say this to Michael’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be from Dean's POV. Lots of fluff and hurt/comfort. You're all welcome.
> 
> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, happy Hanukkah, happy New Year, happy holidays, and thanks for reading! Please comment with any feedback, and big love :)


	11. More Than Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just a reminder that when Cas (or anyone, really) speaks in Enochian in one of Dean's chapters, it'll take the form of **_“bold, italicised text and speech marks, like this.”_**
> 
> Also: lots of fluff and comfort here, and only a little bit of angst. But like, mainly comfort. I hope you enjoy!

 

**“There are pains that have lost their memory and don’t remember why they are painful.”**

**—        Antonio Porchia, Voices**

 

 

Sometimes, Dean’s head is a blur and he can’t remember why he is trapped in his own bed, why everything is raw and tender, and why sheens of sweat cover his seared skin and aching forehead.

He wakes up confused; blinking out into the pale, sun-washed surroundings of his bedroom, and has to breathe deeply for a moment, reminding himself of everything that has happened. Of everything he has apparently become.

As the days roll by, his head becomes clearer. He remembers with more ease where he is; why he is there, why everything hurts. Sam is by his side more often than not, and Dean is grateful for this. He also hates it. He hates that he can see so much pain in his brother’s eyes—he hates that he’s the one who caused it. He hates that he’s not strong enough; that he _wasn’t_ strong enough; that now, whenever _anyone_ looks at him, it’s with pity.

Dean counts the new scars stretched across his chest.

His body is mottled entirely now. Covered in etches and scratches and gashes; jarring at awkward angles, some better healed than others, some fresher, rawer. Dean looks down and sees the marks of his own faults; clear, cutting. They’re obvious. They hurt during the night, stinging, aching—at the time when Dean’s mind wants rest more than ever, they sear at his skin with renewed ferocity. One day, when Dean gets too frustrated with his own condition, he causes one of his wounds to split; the stitches the finest physicians in the Kingdom worked so hard on, ripping open, his body tearing apart and blood ebbing through again as all around him panic breaks out, Ellen starts crying and Sammy pleads with him to stay still because Dean has apparently lost enough blood already.

He doesn’t listen, doesn’t think before pressing the tip of his forefinger into the largest of the open gashes out of morbid curiosity, all earlier anger stilled. He flinches back. The injuries in his mind are much the same as those on his body. Raw. Easily reopened.

Dean’s father is blaming himself. Dean can barely look at the man, now—he sees too much of himself in the King, and he knows that this is his fault. He is regretting modelling himself so much after the man who sent him away, froze Dean’s heart, more and more every day.

Dean feels pathetic. He is bathed and washed by other people; servants hold up cups of water to his lips and tilt his head forward to allow him to drink, they feed him and regard him with little more than pity, and none of the respect and reverence they once did.

Dean wouldn’t be much surprised if soon people soon started regarding him with disgust.

He is tired, always. He aches. The physicians tell him he has broken multiple bones. They tell him he is lucky it wasn’t anything worse. They tell him he’d been lucky to survive. That he’s lucky he’s so young, so healthy.

He isn’t lucky. There’s nothing lucky about this. Dean didn’t deserve to survive.

He should have died. He should have died a long time ago. He feels tired already—not the kind of tired that is resolvable by a long, pleasant sleep—the kind of tired that eats; that consumes, that a person should feel at the end of their lives, when they’re old and satisfied with life, ready to depart. Not like Dean is. Dean is too young to be so ready to die.

He thinks—whenever Sammy stands up and exits his room, tired of the way Dean is constantly wallowing in self-pity and shouting at the people he loves most—that Sam is growing sick of him. That Sam is going to leave one day, and never come back.

There is a war raging in Dean’s mind, and he is exhausted. Everything hurts.

Sometimes, lying alone, sweeping nostalgia washes over him—Dean thinks of his mother. He thinks of Mary. Of a time when he was _right_ to idolise John. To call his father his hero. He thinks of the life Sammy was never allowed. He thinks of the life _he_ was never allowed, the life he was robbed of, so soon—and then he feels like shit; because at least he was able to get a _taste_ of it—Sam has never had anything like that life. And Dean needs to stop feeling sorry for himself.

The day that Castiel arrived had been a bad one. Dean had woken up and everything had ached more than usual, which is really fucking saying something. Ellen had given him a sleeping draught because gritting his teeth and wincing through the pain was looking like too much of a task—and when he woke up again, not only was he met with the pain having only _slightly_ ebbed, but Castiel, the Angel that Dean… _never mind_ —was there, staring at Dean like he was a dead bird, an _oh-dear-how-unfortunate-you-poor-thing_ exhibit at some sick kind of fucking travelling circus.

Dean had exploded. As had his pain in that moment—which made Dean angrier, and all the more wretched. He had shouted. He had _yelled_ and sobbed and cried that he didn’t want Cas around him—because Dean was pathetic and he needed to get himself together; and Cas couldn’t see him. Not like this. Never like this.

Dean hadn’t missed the way Cas’s eyes had grazed over his chest, over Dean’s visible skin—the way Cas had, shocked, drank in the sight of Dean’s wounds—his mottled, ugly flesh; jagged and covered in gashes and sores, still healing. Dean had burned with shame.

He’d missed Cas. Of course he had. He always misses Cas. But he hadn’t wanted Castiel to see him.

But Cas didn’t care. Or, didn’t seem to. He cared more about Dean’s condition; that Dean was okay, that he was recovering, that he was happy. Of course, Dean doesn’t think he is _any_ of these things. But he had lied to Cas, because it meant seeing the Angel a little more relieved. There was no use in having _both_ of them feeling like shit.

The problem at hand: Castiel is remarkably perceptive of Dean. Which is weird—because in every other social situation, Castiel cannot seem to figure out people or their emotions for the life of him. He’s awkward and has difficulty holding a conversation with anyone other than Dean; and he can’t hold Dean’s gaze for too long, all of which Dean probably finds a little _too_ endearing—but Cas can _see_ Dean. He can see Dean’s heart and how he feels and what he thinks. And he knows what to say to keep Dean from hating himself too much.

And fuck, does Dean hate himself.

But Cas—Cas seems to think that Dean is an entire universe all in himself. He looks at Dean like he’s something actually valuable and worth a damn—which is weird, because Dean _isn’t,_ because this is Dean Winchester; who has fucked up countless times and doesn’t deserve forgiveness, much less—whatever emotion it is that fills Castiel’s eyes whenever he looks at the Human and his ugly, marred flesh.

Castiel’s gaze makes Dean’s skin prickle hot and cold.

_“One day, Dean, I will show you the stars and convince you of how I see them align in your eyes.”_

Dean doesn’t think before kissing Castiel again, after these words. The syllables curl, warm in his skull, smothering all Dean’s self-doubt and all his hatred for himself, smothering his mind itself—and it’s only for a moment, but it’s enough. Dean has never felt so free.

He makes Castiel promise that he means what he says. Castiel promises. He makes Castiel promise that he won’t leave Dean alone. Dean can’t go on without Castiel. Castiel promises.

Dean is seconds away from allowing confessions of his own affections for Castiel come pouring from his lips, but he bites his tongue and swallows. He can’t say any of that. Because Cas won’t return those particular sentiments. Dean is pitiable and disgusting and something nobody wants to get tangled up in; because he is a mess and complicated and not worth the time, nor is he worth the effort of becoming involved with. Romantically or not.

And it’s ridiculous that Castiel can’t see this.

Dean dreads the day when the veil shrouding Cas’s vision of what Dean _really_ is will be lifted—where whatever it is that stops Cas from loathing Dean will be removed; and Cas will think of Dean exactly as Dean thinks himself.

Castiel grazes the cloth against Dean’s chest, and Dean closes his eyes and sighs at the touch. It feels better when Cas is the one doing this. When Castiel has cleaned Dean chest and shoulders, he looks a little lost about what he should do, next—and much as Dean wants Cas to continue, he definitely _doesn’t_ want Cas to have to wash the more—well, _private—_ areas of his body. And that’s not even taking into account the fact that having Cas touch him, like this; warm water running in small drops down Dean’s torso, has already apparently got Dean a little more than just excited.

Dean doesn’t know why, but Cas’s touches have been unspeakably tender, gentle. It’s like his fingers hold _reverence_ for Dean’s body; like Dean is something worth cherishing and adoring and admiring. And Dean doesn’t know why, but it’s a crazy turn-on and a thought that sends his mind reeling with disbelief and happiness.

“Should I wash down your back, now?” Castiel asks. Dean feels slightly relieved, and nods, as Castiel helps him turn over in the bed.

“This feels so much better than lying on my back,” Dean laughs.

“You like sleeping on your front,” Castiel’s voice smiles, warm and affectionate as he rubs the cloth over Dean’s skin in small soft circles. Dean doesn’t know how Cas has worked this out, but something cosy and happy twists brightly inside his heart at the words and how observant of Dean’s nature they are.

“Yeah,” He laughs, beaming into his pillow, “how did you know?”

“You always seem uncomfortable when you’re lying on your back, and trying to sleep.”

“Well, that’s ‘cause I’m kinda in a lot of pain, Cas,” Dean finds himself laughing.

“And you always rolled over onto your front whenever we slept beside each other,” Cas finishes, softly, and he cards his fingers through Dean’s hair. Dean’s heart twitches at the motion.

“You’re very observant.”

“Only with you,” The Angel laughs, brushing his knuckles gently, affectionately, against Dean’s shoulder blades.

“Cas, can you help me roll over, again?” Dean asks.

“Why?” Cas’s voice is laced with confusion, and Dean can practically _hear_ the Angel incline his head to the side and squint, perplexed, at Dean. “I’ve barely started on your back.”

“Because I want to kiss you,” Dean nearly _giggles_.

“Oh,” Cas says simply—he sounds endearingly surprised, which only makes Dean smile _more_ ; and as soon as Dean is on his back once more, he pulls Castiel back down, and their lips meet.

Dean likes the taste of Cas’s lips. He misses it whenever the Angel is gone.

He presses his tongue inside of the Angel’s mouth, now, and feels Castiel’s lips twitch into a smile against Dean. Dean’s hand moves up to fist at Cas’s hair—and although it hurts, honestly, Dean doesn’t care. Their noses bump awkwardly, and Dean huffs a breath of laughter into Castiel’s mouth. Nothing matters when Cas’s lips are pressed against Dean’s. Dean can feel the cold weather of the mountains on the Angel’s chapped lips, rough against his mouth but gentle, gentle and tender and pliant; moulding into Dean’s touch and pressing against him with affection and care and warmth and everything Dean needs.

Dean’s heart aches as Cas runs his tongue against the curve of Dean’s bottom lip, as though memorising it—and Dean sighs, a moan escaping one or both of their mouths and getting trapped, muffled in the kiss—he forgets everything. He forgets the rest of the world, and his own failures, and all his pain and the heartache and misery that curls bitterly in his heart with every breath he takes—because with Cas, everything is alright. Everything is more than alright.

Ellen entering the room again pulls them apart with a sudden, awkward, jerking motion. Dean feels himself go bright red.

“Sorry—” Ellen’s eyes go wide, her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline—the effect of which would be extremely entertaining were it not for that fact that Dean is fairly sure his face is about to melt off from mortifying, heated embarrassment.

“Um—” Dean doesn’t know what to say—‘cause on the one hand, this really shouldn’t come as a surprise, for Ellen—she knows that he and Cas are close; even if she didn’t know exactly _how_ close—but on the other, this is the first time Dean and Cas have just been caught together, doing—well, _this._

“I didn’t mean to interrupt…” Ellen looks just about as awkward as Dean _feels,_ and he glances at Cas, who is staring at the ground, apparently mortified.

“That’s, um—” Dean swallows. “That’s okay, Ellen.” He has fleeting look in Castiel’s direction again. “It’s only awkward if we let it be awkward, right?” He asks, attempting to grin back his own embarrassment, which to his credit, he thinks he does pretty well.

“Right,” Ellen nods, stepping inside the room again, “I’ve um—I’ve got your food, Dean—if you two boys want a little more privacy, I can go.”

“Thanks, Ellen,” Dean nods, his face still red.

Ellen smiles and ruffles Dean’s hair, setting the plate onto the table and turning back towards the door.

“It’s great you two boys get along so well, though, you’ve gotta admit,” Ellen’s face lines with amusement, and it does nothing to extinguish Dean’s embarrassment.

“Yes, it’s great, Ellen,” Dean rolls his eyes, noting that Cas is still staring at the floor. Ellen closes the door quietly behind her.

“That was awkward—” Dean tries to laugh, looking over to Castiel, again, but the Angel looks horribly anxious, and isn’t meeting Dean’s gaze. “—Cas?” He asks, frowning, reaching out his hand to graze his fingers against Castiel’s arm.

“Awkward?” Cas repeats, frowning.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, something like confused anxiety twisting in his gut. “Why, what would you class it as?”

Cas shrugs and says nothing, looking away.

Dean bites his lip. “Are you—has the idea of you and me—has it lost its appeal, now? ‘Cause… y’know, ‘cause Ellen caught us—What I mean, is, do you not want to, anymore? ‘Cause it’s not a secret?”

Castiel looks back up.

“Is that how _you_ feel?” He asks.

“—No— _fuck,_ no—it’s just… That’s what you looked like, you know? It’s what you look like, _now_ —”

“It’s not how I feel,” Castiel squints at Dean.

“Then why do you look—like _that?”_ Dean asks, gesturing to Castiel.

“Like what?” Castiel frowns.

“That,” Dean repeats, gesturing to the Angel unhelpfully. “Like—I don’t know—like you regret it. All of it.”

“I don’t regret—”

“Then _why—”_

“Are you not concerned that Ellen found our behaviour inappropriate?! That she will consider reporting what just happened—”

“Ellen wouldn’t do anything like that,” Dean frowns. “And anyway, it’s not exactly a _surprise_ for her, if that’s what you think.”

“Why would it not be a surprise?”

“Have you _seen_ us, Cas? We’re always together—and not in a bad way—but we _are._ Whenever you come to the castle, it’s like we’re joined at the hip—and don’t get me wrong, it’s not a bad thing. I like it, this way. I love it. But it’s kind of clear to everyone—like, not just Ellen—and she knows me best, so she’d be able to tell, first—but it’s obvious to everyone that you and I are—y’know. _Something.”_

“What makes it obvious?” Cas frowns.

“Everything I just mentioned! I mean, look at us, now. As soon as you arrive, I start picking up. I start smiling. I stop feeling so sorry for myself. And you spend every waking moment—as far as I can tell—right by my side. And that’s not a criticism, Cas; I’m saying I love that you do, but the fact is; you _do._ What do you think that looks like to everyone? Would you _blame_ them for thinking that you and I were something?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“Exactly,” Dean hums.

“And what are we, Dean?” Cas asks, staring at Dean, intently, now. Dean’s words in response curl and dry up in his throat.

“—What—”

“What do you think we are?” Cas inquires. “You continue to state that you and I are ‘something’; that this is clear to all the castle hands and residents here; and yet you don’t specify _what,_ exactly. Well, I’m asking you now. What _are_ we? What do you think we are?”

Dean’s mouth dries up.

“I don’t know, Cas—I guess—”

“And if you don’t know, then what would you _like_ us to be?”

“What would _you_ like us to be, Cas?” Dean frowns—Castiel stirs, like he’s going to answer, but Dean sighs and cuts him off. “No, y’know what? Why is there a need to define it? Why do you _want_ to? Why can’t we just accept it for what it is, and let it be?”

“But what _is_ it, Dean?”

“Don’t you listen, Cas? Why do we need to—”

Castiel sighs and stands up, as if in resignation.

“Dean, you may restricted to lying only in your bed, you may be in pain and frustrated with your condition; or concerned about your family and friends, but you cannot continue acting like such a—” Castiel bites his lip and trails off.

“Such a _what?”_ Dean scowls.

“A child,” Castiel finishes, matter-of-factly. “You needn’t behave like such a child. You know, Dean, I may put up with it, but I certainly don’t enjoy it when you shout at me in moments of your own frustration—or when you’re standoffish, or flippant, or just _rude._ I understand that you’re in pain; and I am trying my very hardest not to become too frustrated, myself; I am trying to remind myself of your current condition—but honestly, Dean, you don’t exactly make it _easy_ for me.”

Dean bites the insides of his mouth and glares at Castiel. The Angel glares back. He tries, in a futile attempt, not to think about how _fucking gorgeous_ the Angel is when he’s angry.

“Then why do you bother staying with me?” Dean bites, his lip curling. “If I’m such a drag, why do you stay by my bed, just waiting for me to wake up?”

“I think you already know the answer to that, Dean. And if you don’t, maybe that’s why you have so much difficulty defining our friendship,” Castiel says, coolly, and Dean is barely given the time to _register_ what the Angel has just said, let alone think of a response to it; before Castiel strides, lividly, out of Dean’s quarters.

Dean doesn’t know what to think.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ellen comes back into Dean’s room about half an hour later to check up on him. Cas still hasn’t returned. Not only is Dean starting to worry, but a dull, gnawing hollow has filled his chest. He’s pushed the Angel too far. He always does this with the people who mean the most to him. He pushes them away and shouts at them, all the while feeling nothing but sorry for himself, and inevitably they end up hating him. Everyone ends up hating him.

“Where’s Castiel?” Ellen asks, frowning at Dean slightly as she plumps his cushions and brushes the hair out of Dean’s eyes.

“Gone,” Dean shrugs. He looks away from Ellen’s concerned eyes as she pulls a questioning face at him, prompting more. “I don’t know where.”

“Do you know why?”

“ _Probably_ because I’m a dick,” Dean replies, flatly.

“You had a fight?” Ellen’s face lines with still more concern.

“Something like that,” Dean sighs. His chest is hurting. He can’t tell if it’s because of his injuries, or something else. “I don’t know what happened, really.”

“Was it because I walked in on the two of you—” Concern lines Ellen’s face; and Dean doesn’t want to allow this, because Ellen _never_ deserves to feel sad, or worried, or guilty about _anything—_ and so even though his face is on fire with embarrassment again, he interrupts her and reassures her that she is quite blameless in this situation.

“No, that was fine—well, it was embarrassing, sure, but that’s not why Cas left,” Dean tries to comfort, even though his insides are twisting painfully with the anxious _something_ that is continually tugging at the strings of his chest.

“Then what happened?”

“He,” Dean sighs and rubs his face hard with his palms. “He wanted to know what he and I—y’know—we’ve never really defined it—and he wanted to know what we _were;_ and I got annoyed because I didn’t know—and I kind of don’t _want_ to define it, you know, Ellen? I don’t know why, I just—” Dean sighs, cutting himself off. “Anyway, things escalated, and he stormed out, and now I don’t know if we’re even _anything,_ anymore.”

Ellen huffs out a breath of exasperated air.

“Dean, you are the _most_ emotionally constipated child I’ve ever met.”

Dean frowns, about to object, but Ellen continues.

“And that wasn’t the first time you and Castiel have kissed?”

“No,” Dean shakes his head.

“What other times?”

“I don’t know, Ellen, I haven’t exactly been counting!”

“You’ve grown up so much,” Ellen sighs, and it’s both nostalgic and patronising. “It’s so strange for me to think about the little boy—”

“Could you just find him for me, please?” Dean asks, trying not to think of how his voice rakes against his throat as he speaks. “Tell him I’m sorry? _Please_?”

Ellen exhales deeply and squeezes Dean’s shoulder.

“Of course, sweetie. Sorry for being so sentimental—it’s just strange for me to see you growing up so much. Sometimes I forget you’re no longer that child who spent every night wrapped around his brother, trying to keep the monsters away.”

Dean doesn’t know how to reply, but Ellen has left before Dean even has a chance to turn and look at her to work out what she means.

Honestly, all he wants now is for someone to wrap their arms around _him_ and keep the monsters away.

And more than anything, he wants that person to be Castiel.

Dean sighs and leans back against his bed. His room feels too big.

Cas enters again a while later—Dean wonders how long it took for Ellen to persuade him to come back; and what exactly it was she had to say to coax him to do so.

“Cas—” Dean tries to say, but the Angel presses his lips together in such a way that Dean finds himself completely lost for words. “I’m sorry—” He tries again, but his words catch in his throat, dragging against it as he speaks.

“Do not trouble yourself with it, Dean,” Cas shrugs. He sighs, sitting himself down on the chair beside Dean’s bed again; although he looks infinitely more distant than he did before.

“Cas—please don’t think—”

“It’s fine, Dean,” Castiel says firmly. Dean doesn’t miss the way his gaze hardens, his wings threatening to fan out behind him in frustration.

“No, Cas, listen—I only said all that crap ‘cause I’m scared—I don’t know what I’m scared _of,_ I just know that I _am,_ and I know that’s totally my fault—but please don’t think for even a second, Cas, that I wouldn’t drop everything for you—‘cause I would, without a second thought. Please don’t think that you don’t matter to me—because you mean more to me than I could ever say—and I’m not supposed to get attached, ever—not to anyone who isn’t family—but with you I have, and somehow, it’s okay. Things are _more_ than okay when I have you… And I’m sorry.”

Dean gazes, earnestly, at Castiel.

Cas’s expression softens.

“I’m sorry for the comments I made about your condition,” the Angel replies sincerely. “It’s not my place to discern which of your outbursts are permitted because of the pain you’re in—and I have no possible way of understanding how you’re feeling. The only thing I _should_ be doing is supporting you—and making you feel as happy as is possible in your current position.”

Dean looks down. He thinks he feels his ears going pink.

He senses the Angel leaning forward, and closes his eyes as he feels Castiel’s fingers card tenderly through Dean’s hair.

“Sorry…” Dean mumbles again, his voice shamefully small.

Cas’s hand moves to tilt Dean’s chin upwards, but Dean refuses. He hears the Angel huff a soft sigh, pressing a kiss on the corner of his closed eye. It’s soft and fleeting and barely there at all; but the touch makes Dean’s insides come up in a fluttering, swirling storm.

“Can you stay here, tonight?” Dean asks, his voice cracking in his throat as he finally opens his eyes to look up to Cas.

“I always do, Dean,” Castiel frowns, his head inclining to its side as he regards the Human slowly.

“I mean—” Dean bites his lip. “I mean in my bed. Would you lie next to me? Like we always used to, whenever you stayed? I know it sounds weird, but—I mean, it’s got to be more comfortable than sleeping on that chair, right?”

Dean looks up at Castiel. Hopeful.

Cas’s eyes crinkle at their corners.

“Eat, first, Dean.” The Angel gestures to Dean’s food, long forgotten, on the table beside his bed. “And then I’ll lie down next to you, if that’s what you’d still like.”

“Thank you,” Dean’s words come up rough against his throat. “I’m so glad I have you.” He confesses. The Angel smiles, the expression so subtle and gentle it’s barely perceptible, but as it is, Dean notices everything about Castiel.

“And I’m glad I have you.” Castiel returns. He picks up the wooden plate for Dean, helping Dean sit up a little more, and hands Dean’s food to him. Dean feels the Angel press a soft kiss on top of Dean’s head; the Angel’s breath ruffling his hair gently, before standing up. “I’m going to rekindle the fire.” He states, the tender, barely-there smile still lacing his features.

Dean nods and glances out his window as he eats. It’s growing darker outside and he wonders what time it is; and whether he should be asking the Angel to come and sleep next to him at such an early hour; if it even _is_ an early one.

The moon outside Dean’s room casts a muted, milky glow on the sky around it. It’s bright tonight, Dean thinks—and the colour of the sky just surrounding the moon, paled because of it, closely resembles the colour of Cas’s eyes when the Angel is gazing steadily, softly at Dean. Although even _this_ colour holds none of the intensity of Catiel’s gaze. Castiel is Dean’s own little broken piece of the sky.

Dean looks back at Castiel, and at the way the flames light up the Angel’s gentle, sturdy frame, the way the tongues of orange send the brilliant blue of Cas’s wings reeling with violet. Dean thinks about how safe and secure he feels whenever the Angel is around. He doesn’t know what he’d have done without Cas’s presence in the castle over these past weeks, the exact number of which he has lost count of almost entirely.

The Angel turns to face Dean again, the glow of the firelight licking at the side of his face and setting it in a dim, warm radiance.

Cas is so beautiful.

The Angel blushes and ducks his head, grinning bashfully, and Dean feels a mortified kick in his stomach when he realises that he’s said this out loud.

“That’s very kind, Dean,” Castiel laughs softly. Dean’s face is currently as ablaze as the fire set in the hearth at the back of his room. The Angel treads gently over to Dean again, reaching his hand out to graze the backs of his fingers against Dean’s cheek. “Very kind,” He repeats, sincerely. Knuckles, impossibly tender, graze against Dean’s skin. A kiss is pressed to Dean’s forehead. “But I’m afraid that you’re almost certainly infinitely more so,” His lips twitch upwards in an amused, teasing smile. Dean blushes again.

“I don’t know—” Dean ducks his head, but Cas’s fingertips pressing underneath the Human’s chin stop him from looking down.

“So beautiful,” Castiel hums affectionately, happily, before pressing another kiss to the tip of Dean’s nose and making his way round to the other side of Dean’s bed to slide in next to Dean’s body.

“When I’m King,” Dean mumbles gently, “I’m going to dub Ellen a Lady. And she’s not going to have to work for the rest of her life.”

“What makes you say that?” Castiel chuckles quietly, his breath tickling the side of Dean’s face.

“I owe her everything,” Dean laughs. “Even today—with getting you to come back. I have to make all of it up, some way.”

“I don’t think she did any of it with the intention of being repaid in any way.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “But she deserves it. And like I said, with today—if it wasn’t for her, you wouldn’t have come back. I wouldn’t have been able to apologise.”

Cas nods softly.

“I suppose,” He muses. “Although I don’t doubt that I would have come back, eventually.”

Dean feels himself smile.

“What else will you do, when you are King?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugs. “I’d make Uncle Bobby a Lord. He deserves that. And I’d change the rules about relations with servants and nobility.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Cas’s voice is soft and warm and affectionate. Its gravelly tones graze over Dean’s skin, sending up timid, affectionate pinpricks along Dean’s forearms. He sighs at the sound.

He feels Cas’s fingertips gently card through his hair. The touch has a tight knotted feeling in Dean’s chest coming undone; as though Dean’s body is a length of rope and Castiel is untying him.

Dean is suddenly sleepy, with the warm glow of the fire; its gentle crackling in the back of his ears and the sound of Cas’s steady breathing beside him. He’s used to feeling tired rather randomly as of recently—but this is a different sort of drowsiness. It has warm blankets coiling loosely in his stomach, setting a forgiving simmering deep in his blood—as if his entire body is setting alight in a bright, soft fire, smouldering in comforting orange embers next to Castiel.

“Recite another poem for mw,” Dean mumbles, his eyelids drooping softly closed. He feels Cas exhale a gentle, short burst of air against Dean’s frame—it ruffles his hair and tickles tenderly at his skin. It’s amused and affectionate and had the sound come from anyone else, Dean would wrinkle his nose and scowl at it—but as it is, it comes from Cas. And Dean loves the thought that Cas regards him with affection more than he could ever admit. He doesn’t think he could admit almost _anything_ that he feels about Cas—or _for_ Cas—out loud.

Cas’s hands stroke up his sides. Dean’ breathing is already uneven, and the Angel is doing nothing to help this—but the rough callouses over the Angel’s fingertips are oddly tender and comforting; their course edges are grounding and gentle; and once more, Dean doesn’t want to think about how much he likes it.

A kiss is pressed to Dean’s temple. Cas’s breath ruffles Dean’s hair again.

“Another?” Castiel says, gently. His voice is lined with still more warm amusement.

“Please,” Dean nods. Cas’s fingertips graze under his chin, gently.

“In Enochian?” Cas asks. “Or your own language?”

“You choose.” Dean shrugs—it is a pitiful attempt at remaining as nonchalant and indifferent as possible on Dean’s part; but it’s one he’s going to continue attempting, because really, he’s already embarrassed himself enough in front of Cas for one lifetime.

Castiel breaths slowly for a few moments before starting. His fingers don’t stop stroking gently at Dean’s scar ridden chest. Dean’s skin is burning, prickling, with an itching anticipation; but he doesn’t say anything.

Dean’s breathing stops altogether when Castiel begins at last.

“It was many and many a year ago,

   In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

   By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

   Than to love and be loved by me.

 

 _“I_  was a child and  _she_  was a child,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

   I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

   Coveted her and me.

 

“And this was the reason that, long ago,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

   My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

   And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

   In this kingdom by the sea.

 

“The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

   Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

   In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

 

“But our love it was stronger by far than the love

   Of those who were older than we—

   Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

   Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

 

“For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

   In her sepulchre there by the sea—

   In her tomb by the sounding sea.”

 

There is silence for a while. Honestly, Dean thinks it could be for a lifetime.

“That was a sad one.” He states, frowning from where he lies. Castiel only nods in agreement, exhaling deeply again.

“Yes,” He nods, “It’s a very moving item.”

“Why did you choose it, then?” Dean asks. Cas’s hand moves to cup Dean’s cheek, framing his face. His thumb grazes gently against Dean’s cheekbone; and though Dean can’t turn his body completely because of his injuries, he tilts his head to face Cas a little more; to allow the Angel a more easy access to the affectionate touch.

“I don’t know,” Castiel hums, pensively. “I’ve always liked it. I thought I should share it with you.”

“What do you like about it?”

“Well, it’s very emotive.” The Angel shrugs. His lips twitch upwards. Dean’s insides coil with warmth in the knowledge that he is the only one who can pull such smiles from Castiel’s features—and so many of them. “And I like the lines where it describes that the two of them only existed for each other. To love, and to be loved, by one another. And the line; ‘we loved with a love that was more than love’, I find to be quite beautiful. As though, love cannot even describe the depth and earnest severity of their emotions for each other. But despite this; it’s still beautifully innocent. ‘I was a child, and she was a child.’ It’s as though they’re soulmates; who found each other when they were young, and knew from that instant that they should never be apart.” Dean’s throat has dried up. His gaze feels almost _scared_ as he stares back at Cas. “And this is only further proven by the line

“‘And neither the angels in Heaven above,    
Nor the demons down under the sea  
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee’.

“Which I find even more striking. It’s as though they loved each other so much, their souls joined; they became one being, and not even death can break that. Come what may, the speaker’s heart will always belong to his Annabel Lee.”

“That _is_ beautiful.” Dean nods slowly. Cas’s eyes soften. His hand moves down to squeeze Dean’s own, gently.

“So, even though it is sad, I still rather love it.” Castiel shrugs. “Michael showed it to me when I was very young, it might have been one of the first Human poems I ever heard. He loved it very much, too, though I’m not sure why. Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, “although that might be mainly because _you_ love it.”

He hadn’t really meant to say that last part out loud. His ears redden.

“That’s a rather endearing thing of you to say, Dean.” Castiel laughs gently. “Well, more than _rather_ endearing.”

“I hadn’t meant to say it.” Dean admits, blushing. “Sometimes when I’m with you, things just slip out, and I don’t mean them to.”

“That’s okay,” Cas smiles, “I find them to be really quite charming.”

The simmering in Dean’s blood has seethed into a boil.

Dean wants to blurt out everything he feels for Cas in this moment. Even though he doesn’t know exactly what those feelings _are._ It’s like Dean is a sinking boat and Cas’s waters are pouring over him, drowning him, and the skies overhead are stormy but not grey as Dean is used to—they swirl with dark clouds and navy skies, but lightning strikes the sky with silver and white light; illuminating it—and it feels oddly as though Dean’s boat _belongs_ under Castiel’s sea; buried there, nestled in its depths. He swallows.

Cas’s eyes are the colour of lightning darting over the ocean.

Dean is falling down, into the pits of the watery deep, slowly, and he’d never known that drowning could feel so devastatingly perfect.

“I had always thought Humanity to be _so_ beautiful,” Castiel muses slowly, his thumb grazing across Dean’s cheek again, “but it could never compare to you.”

Dean’s face catches ablaze.

“—I—”

“You don’t need to know how to respond.” Castiel’s expression is that of tender understanding. His smile is warm and accepting and undemanding. “You being here with me is more than I could ever ask for.”

“Stay,” Dean pleads, “the whole night. Please stay. Stay with me.”

“I’ll never leave your side, Dean.” Castiel promises, pressing a kiss to the side of Dean’s face. He pushes back a few stray strands of hair, rested on Dean’s forehead, before his hand returns to Dean’s chest, stroking patterns over the faulted, scarred skin. Dean’s chest slows in its constant rise and fall; his breath catching in his throat; but things are oddly easy, in moments like these. Maybe it’s because Dean feels as though the rest of the world doesn’t matter, for once. Only Cas can make him feel like that.

Cas starts humming something softly—the words are barely audible, only a mumbled comfort tickling Dean’s skin—he thinks that maybe it’s in Enochian; because he can’t understand it, although maybe that’s just because Dean is so very nearly asleep, here with Castiel’s body wrapped around his own flawed, injured one. Cas stops the gentle purring of his voice for a moment, but the presence of his hands still presses reassuringly at Dean’s skin.

 ** _“I think I was born to hold you in my arms, Dean.”_** Cas mumbles; but Dean can barely hear him, let alone work out that the Angel is _definitely_ speaking in Enochian, now. His body feels as though it is floating away, despite Cas’s grounding touches on his chest. **_“Maybe I was born to hold you, just as I am holding you, now.”_**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be from Cas's perspective and feature him leaving Hera for this visit/returning for the next.
> 
> Also, big news about the next chapter!!!
> 
> It'll be the chapter where Dean and Cas's betrothal is FINALLY made official!
> 
> So, lots of big celebrations from the kingdoms and lots of earnest conversations between Dean and Cas.
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a comment!


	12. Promises Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has come along so late! Hopefully the content for the chapter will make up for it!
> 
> This is the chapter where Dean and Cas *finally* become officially betrothed. Next chapter will be more celebrations in Hera etc., and after that... Well. Spoilers. **But** I can promise lots of drama and plot twists, and the pace of the story is hopefully gonna speed up a tonne. Anyway. I hope you enjoy!

  **“I look at him and wonder what my**

**hands are for.**

**I look at him and want to touch him everywhere.”**

**— Caitlyn Siehl, excerpt from The Talisman**

 

 

Castiel loses track of how much time he spends in Hera. Michael is forced to leave after a short while, Castiel assumes by his duties, although the High King returns to the Human Kingdom on several occasions, visiting and leaving in a sporadic manner that seems to reflect his state of mind quite perfectly.

Gabriel and Anna also come to visit the Kingdom inbetween Michael’s stays to ensure that both Dean and Castiel are in as good spirits and health as is possible considering their respective situations, which, it seems, they are.

John is not himself. The sadness that Castiel recognised in his eyes when he first saw the Human King of Hera has only increased during Castiel’s stay. Dean’s father seems constantly tired and anxious, and the young Prince tells Castiel that his father blames himself for all that happened when Dean went to war. It would seem that self-deprecation is a quality Dean inherited from his father’s line.

And the Angel spends each night coiled up beside Dean, now. Dean cannot really move during the night in view of his injuries, but Castiel rests his arms over Dean’s body so that their frames lie, nearly knotted together, and rise and fall in matching rhythm.

Neither of them mention it; but they like the nights best when they are both touching—even if it’s only slightly. Castiel’s heart feels as though it’s tumbling down the ladder of his ribcage whenever he is with Dean; his breathing stops almost completely, almost so that time stands still—and he has never felt so raw, so vulnerable before now.

There’s a purity in this vulnerability, he thinks, and he thinks Dean feels it too; like the cleansing, burning magic of salt rubbed into broken flesh or of alcohols poured onto wounds.

When Castiel leaves the castle after moons and moons of staying in Hera with the Human Prince, Dean is walking again—although only for short distances. He has a crutch decorated as a sceptre to assist him in this, and though this is only for short bursts of time before he proceeds to rest for a long while, it is reassuring for Castiel to see this change in health.

Castiel says his goodbyes in the large, ten sided courtyard at the front of the castle, recalling how this was the first place he stepped out onto Heran territory. He glances up at Dean and sees the Human looking like he’s broken at the thought of Castiel having to go once more, and it rips something raw inside of the Angel to see.

He promises Dean that he will return—very soon, in fact, he swears that he will make sure of it—and that he will pray that Dean gets better, which seems to be a moderate reassurance to the Human. His eyes still dart worriedly about his surroundings the way a deer would at the approaching clamour of men on horses.

The oldest Winchester boy tugs at Castiel’s hand just before the Angel gets ready to leave with Michael, and Castiel stops, looking back at the young prince. Dean’s eyes are soft on Castiel’s. He tugs on Castiel’s hand again, and Castiel leans toward to Dean, where Dean grazes the backs of his fingers against Castiel’s cheek, before pulling Castiel closer still, intimately close, for a soft, sweet kiss. Their lips linger on each other for a moment, before Castiel pulls back, smiling, and presses another kiss onto Dean’s forehead. Dean presses his face into Castiel’s neck as though he is hiding from the sunlight.

“I’ll miss you,” Dean says, looking up at the Angel with sad eyes that swirl constantly into themselves in the way storms do on particularly moody days.

“And I’ll miss you.” Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand and says his words as though they are a promise.

He has to turn away to stop his heart from caving in.

Michael travels with Castiel. The younger Angel spends most of the journey back to his home staring out of his window, yet again—although this time it is not because of some dispute between him and his older brother, but rather because of longing that empties his chest.

 _“King John does not seem to be himself,”_ Michael muses quietly, still looking out his own window, at the surrounding cities and towns of Hera, which roll quietly by in flittering, fleeting images of gray stone and emerald greenery and golden thatch.

 _“No, he doesn’t,”_ Castiel agrees. Tempted to stop the conversation there, he instead decides to share more with his brother than a few mere words. _“Dean says he blames the incident on himself. He worries for Dean’s health, now—when before he had considered Dean as almost invulnerable. Maybe like a sacrifice, even. I think the thought of losing his son had never even occurred to him; or rather, the pain he might feel at Dean’s loss had never occurred to him. And suddenly it became more than he could bear.”_

 _“You phrase it a little unflatteringly,”_ Michael muses, “ _Though I know for certain that worry is one of the many prices of being a parent,”_ He continues thoughtfully. _“Or, indeed, an older brother.”_ His lips twitch upwards and he glances at Castiel with amusement etched across his worry-lined, though certainly still handsome features. Castiel returns the smile.

 _“And what’s the price of being a younger brother, do you think?”_ He asks, tone playful as he humours his oldest sibling a moment.

 _“I’ve only_ ever _been an older brother, Castiel,”_ Michael laughs. _“You tell me.”_

Michael’s laughter is rare in how guileless and genuine Castiel’s ears can discern it to be. The younger Angel gazes pensively at the High King a moment, resisting the urge to squint and tilt his head in his attempts to gauge Michael’s thoughts.

 _“Having to do what your older siblings tell you to do. No matter how stupid or pigheaded it may seem,”_ Castiel decides, and Michael chuckles in response, the sound warm and rich, lovely and powerful as molten gold.

 _“I see,”_ He nods. _“And do you ever consider they give you instruction for your own protection?”_

 _“Sometimes, I suppose,”_ Castiel admits with a grimace.

_“What else is the price of being a younger sibling?”_

_“Being teased,”_ Castiel chooses this response from an endless list of the many pitfalls of being younger than his brothers and sister, though he’s certain many of his qualms with his position in his family are hardly applicable to other groups of siblings. _“Constantly.”_

 _“I think that’s the price of having_ Gabriel _as an older brother,”_ Michael corrects, his voice still rumbling with bright, soft laughter, like the sun peeping out from behind thick clouds. He shakes his head and smiles affectionately at Castiel.

 _“I suppose, yes,”_ Castiel acknowledges. _“Although you and Anna certainly have your moments.”_

Michael chuckles and rolls his eyes.

 _“You always seem to be much happier, after your interactions with Prince Dean,”_ He teases gently.

 _“And here’s the proof that you, too, have your moments of goading,”_ Castiel tries just as much not to smile as he does not to blush.

 _“I’m glad you’re happy, brother,”_ Michael’s tone has quietened, softened, and somehow still cut through the teasing, jesting tone of their conversation up to this point. His eyes no longer dance, but rather spark, with Michael’s undoubtedly vast knowledge of the contents of Castiel’s head and heart.

_“More relieved, than anything else.”_

This admittance comes coupled with a spasm of hurt up Castiel’s left side at the thought of how possible it was that he could have lost Dean.

 _“Yes,”_ Michael nods. _“That’s very understandable. He’s recovering well, though, Little Sarim—find rest in that knowledge, I ask you.”_

_“I know he is—and I will.”_

_“The understanding that someone you love is safe—it’s very reassuring.”_

_“It is,”_ Castiel agrees.

_“He promised to write?”_

_“He did,”_ Castiel nods. _“And I promised to reply.”_

 _“Good.”_ A pause, and then Michael begins to speak again, with a quiet smirk curling at his features. _“You know, brother, I think you’re better at speaking the Human’s languages than I am, now.”_ He chuckles wistfully a moment. _“All your practice in the High Tongue of Edian. It’s paid off.”_

This isn’t surprising, when Castiel thinks about it. He spends most of his time reading in Human languages, and still more of it writing to Dean in Edian, the language of the Northern Kingdoms—and his visits to Hera are spent speaking almost exclusively in this tongue, in particular.

On top of all of this, Castiel is given lessons on it by his Tutor, who has been fluent in the language since he was a young boy—and the Angel who teaches Castiel language and histories is now well over eight centuries old. Really, it should come as absolutely no shock at all that Castiel is so confident in it. Castiel says as much to his brother, who chuckles and agrees.

 _“Yes, that’s fair enough,”_ He nods.

 _“You seem in very good spirits, too, you know,”_ Castiel squints involuntarily.

_“Yes, I’ll admit it’s quite reasonable to say that I am.”_

_“Why is that?”_ Castiel asks.

 _“Seeing you happy—or indeed, relieved—makes me happy,”_ Michael shrugs simply, lips turning up at their edges, probably against his better judgement, Castiel speculates. This smile is far too sentimental for Michael’s usual character. _“And I’ve been given a chance to forget about many of my responsibilities—and worries—for a brief while… which; although a poor plan for the long run, is relieving to do for short bursts of time.”_

 _“What are you troubled by?”_ Castiel frowns, slightly.

 _“You needn’t worry over it, too, brother,”_ Michael’s tone and expression are both thoroughly reasonable, though Castiel still finds himself resenting them.

 _“When I’m twenty…”_ He reminds with a sigh.

 _“Yes,”_ Michael laughs. _“When you turn twenty, there will be no more secrets. I promise you. None.”_

Castiel tries to be comforted by this. He turns and stares out of his window again.

 _“Don’t think I didn’t notice the kiss you and Dean shared before you left,”_ Michael smirks over to Castiel after a stretch of neither comfortable, though certainly not _uncomfortable,_ silence between the pair. Castiel’s face heats instantly.

_“—I—”_

_“You needn’t be embarrassed, brother.”_ Michael tips his head back as he laughs. _“Honestly, it is rather superb that the two of you get along so well. And you_ are _getting along very well, by the looks of it.”_ Michael nearly leers as he speaks, and despite Gabriel and Michael’s vast number of physical differences, Castiel can see a remarkable resemblance between them, now.

 _“—Brother—”_ Castiel groans, and Michael chuckles again and brushes the back of his hand against Castiel’s wing.

 _“I’m sorry, Castiel, I’ll stop teasing you,”_ Michael grins—it is such a rare occasion that Castiel will see such a happy expression on his brother’s face that the younger Angel almost forgets to feel frustrated and embarrassed by the High King. _“If you don’t mind me asking, however—was it the first time the two of you…”_ He trails off awkwardly, and gestures even more uncomfortably, despite the smile still engraved across his features.

 _“…Kissed?”_ Castiel asks, finishing his brother’s sentence for him.

 _“That’s the word I was looking for,”_ The Angel chuckles a moment. _“Was it?”_

 _“No,”_ Castiel shakes his head, looking away awkwardly. _“It wasn’t.”_

_“So you kissed before on this visit?”_

_“Yes…”_ Castiel confirms.

 _“Had you kissed the Human_ before _this visit?—”_

 _“Michael!”_ Castiel groans, thumping his head against the wall of their carriage.

 _“I am truly sorry brother,”_ Michael’s smile has turned affectionate again. _“I didn’t mean to pry too far. I’m glad that you are happy with Dean. He seems very happy with you.”_

Castiel blushes, yet a ghost of a smile, extraordinarily shy, still manages to creep across his features.

_“I think he is, yes.”_

_“And the two of you will write, until your next visit to his Kingdom.”_

_“Yes,”_ Castiel confirms, lips twitching upwards still more at the thought. He gazes out the window and thinks of how the sun streaming through the layers of forest leaves looks almost exactly the same as Dean’s shimmering, warm eyes. He thinks of summer and lying in long grass with Dean resting his head against Castiel’s stomach; of the pair swimming together in forest streams and sitting under a great chestnut tree together as they dry off in the leaf-dappled sunlight; as Castiel quotes lines of his favourite poems to Dean, and Dean listens with rapt attention.

Castiel thinks of how likely it is that the pair’s betrothal will actually—finally—take place, now. The thought sends his head reeling up into the white clouds above their carriage while butterflies as trembling and gentle as the Human’s kisses flutter through his system.

Dean writes and tells Castiel of how John is growing more and more distant. Dean doesn’t know why; thinks he has done something terribly wrong, is wracked with guilt.

He says that he is having to pick up more and more duties around the castle; he says that Bobby seems more worried for the King’s condition every day—he says his father drinks more nights than not, that Dean found him sobbing in the main hall on his throne, and that when Dean tried to remove him, John lashed out, hitting Dean, before breaking down again and apologising profusely at Dean’s feet.

Dean explains that he felt nothing more than absolute pity for his father in that moment, and that it was disgusting to experience such an emotion toward the man Dean had once believed to hold the sun and stars themselves. Castiel swallows when he reads of how the moment had made Dean want to vomit and convulse as his father did exactly the same.

Dean also tells Castiel of how his responsibilities continue to grow. He is filling in for his father in court, he knows all of the advisers by name now—and not just the chief advisers—each and every one of them.

These interactions continue, for several months, uninterrupted—but one cold, bright morning, where the sky is white and the sun seems to blend into the clouds themselves, Michael enters Castiel’s quarters with a sombre expression.

 _“Castiel,”_ He says, face cloudy like sorrow. Worry twists sharply and without question at Castiel’s gut.

 _“Is Dean okay?”_ He asks immediately—and then swallows hard, taken aback that this was his immediate reaction—he feels unsure what to think of it; of what to think of himself—but Michael’s smile is sad, and he shakes his head.

_“No, brother, this is not about Dean. Your Prince is fine.”_

Castiel momentarily feels the urge to correct his brother—Dean is not _his,_ the two of them are simply—but he pauses. For the millionth time in the past two years, he asks himself—what _are_ he and Dean? They are more than friends, certainly—or are they? Is he only that? A friend of Dean’s? Dean has stated that he is a good friend, granted, even his _best_ friend, but what else is he to the Prince—and why does he so desperately want Dean to think of him as something more?

 _“So what is it about, then?”_ Castiel asks, frowning.

 _“You,”_ Michael replies simply, and he cannot even bring himself to look at Castiel, which only makes the anxiety gnawing at Castiel’s insides grow all the more.

 _“What do you mean?”_ He asks.

_“Raphael believes that it’s time you fought in our wars.”_

Castiel’s heart sinks.

 _“He brought it up at the council meeting this morning, and the rest of the council agreed—you’re nineteen, now; and they said that you are more than ready to become a warrior—I tried to disagree, but there was only so much that I could say—they pointed out that the age for battle is eighteen, and you are—and I am—”_ Michael breaks off. He looks down. His voice trembles.

 _“Michael—”_ Castiel bites his lip. _“I’m ready—it’s fine—they were right. And if I am to be an Archangel, at some point—”_

_“But you’re too young—”_

_“You’ve essentially already stated that I’m not, brother.”_

_“But I don’t want to_ lose _you—”_

 _“You won’t.”_ Castiel reassures.

 _“But, Little Prince, this is_ war—”

 _“I know,”_ Castiel nods. _“And I’ve had_ you _to train me. The finest warrior I know.”_ He smiles in an attempt to be comforting, but he balls his fists from the effort of keeping his hands from shaking.

Michael looks up and Castiel is shocked to see tears in his eyes. The High King, with his towering golden wings and sharp blue eyes and unquestioning, severe brow, pulls Castiel towards him; hugging his body so tightly that Castiel is certain he is going to break—and the younger Angel thinks he can feel Michael’s body shaking with sobs.

Perhaps _this_ is the price of being an older sibling, Castiel thinks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Castiel understands why Dean felt so damaged after he went to war for the first time. Dean had seen it when he was sixteen, Castiel when he is nineteen; and Castiel doesn’t know if he is being weak by being so torn apart by it.

Angel warriors call themselves brothers and sisters in arms. Suddenly, Castiel’s family is bigger than it ever has been.

They claim—or reclaim—or simply steal back an island from the Demons in the north-eastern stretch of the Cerydien  sea, houses ransacked by the Human troops Castiel fights with, Demon families displaced or slaughtered—Dean never mentioned the massacre of innocents in war. Does Dean care? Does he see Demons as no more sentient and feeling than animals?

And since when did a war over a king’s dead wife permit the death and displacement of villages?

The Humans Castiel fights with tell him that the Demons stole this island from the Herans and slaughtered its inhabitants—but the island is closer to Dione than it is to Hera or any Demon kingdom, anyway—and what would the Demons who once lived here say of the Humans who stole their home?

Even when he returns home Castiel feels guilty and wracked with confusion—Michael throwing his arms around his younger brother as soon as Castiel has stepped foot in Evadne, home and safe. Castiel holds onto Michael tighter than he had previously thought physically possible. He hears Michael’s muffled, sobbed apologies come in out as a litany of raw emotion in his ear. It’s alien and uncomfortable for Castiel to see his brother so overcome by feelings, and for a nauseating moment, he wants to step back from the High King and push his brother away.

Anna and Gabriel are waiting for him, too, quickly pulling him into their arms in immediate succession. Castiel doesn’t admit aloud that he finds the touch comforting, but truth be told, he thinks it’s the warmest thing he’s ever known.

He writes to Dean again when he gets back. Dean is relieved to know that Castiel is alright; but his letters seem more formal than Castiel remembers them to be before his travels.

The Human doesn’t make as many jokes in his writing, now—if any at all—and Castiel misses Dean’s wit and absurdity. He only states current events, hardly how he feels about them; and Castiel can hear the ring of Dean’s responsibilities even through his writing.

One evening over dinner, Michael tells Castiel that it has been decided that it is time that the betrothal went underway.

 _“And Dean knows?”_ Castiel asks, frowning—he hates the thought that once again Dean will be left uninformed of these events.

 _“Yes,”_ Michael nods. _“Sir Robert informed me in his letter that Dean agreed to it, too.”_

 _“Agreed?”_ Castiel repeats—his heart pangs with how impersonal the word sounds.

_“I only can’t remember his phrasing exactly, Castiel—you needn’t worry.”_

Castiel nods.

 _“I’m sure Dean will be very pleased,”_ Michael reassures, smiling gently.

Castiel certainly hopes so.

 _“What makes you say that?”_ He asks nervously, his tone far more desperate than he likes.

 _“I’ve seen the way he looks at you,”_ Michael laughs. _“And you’re happy, too?”_ He asks, raising his eyebrows, concerned. _“You still want to go through with this?”_ He inquires.

 _“Yes.”_ Castiel nods. _“I do.”_

Something bright and happy coils deep inside his chest; and although Castiel is not sure what exactly the emotion is, he drinks up the feeling.

_“We will be leaving for Hera in a few days—where, upon our arrival, your betrothal will be announced. I expect there will be a great deal of celebrations as a result of this, so I would suggest bringing your most formal robes.”_

Castiel nods.

_“I understand, brother.”_

There is a pause.

 _“You’re sure he’ll be happy, Michael?”_ The younger Angel asks, concerned. Michael looks up from his plate and smiles.

_“I’m certain, little Sarim.”_

Castiel looks down as his smile spreads to the very corners of his eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A nervous energy thrums through Castiel with every breath he takes—Anna has chided him for the way he bounces his knee up and down constantly, anxiously, for the entirety of their journey; but it’s to no avail. By the time the castle gates are being opened, Castiel is trembling with anticipation.

He notices from the corner of his eye that his siblings are exchanging knowing glances to each other at his excitement, but he outright ignores them.

He feels Anna’s hand rest on his shoulder at some point as they draw up into the courtyard in front of the castle, but Castiel cannot pay attention. Because he can _see_ _Dean_ , standing on the steps leading up to the huge main doors of the castle, and the Angel has forgotten how to breathe.

They exit their chariot—Michael getting out first—and Castiel can’t even bring himself to listen to the opening speeches from both his older brother and King John, greeting each other and speaking streams needless words about their great Kingdom’s alliance. All their sentences garble and turn to liquid in Castiel’s ears anyway; utterly indecipherable next to the tumult turning islands over in Castiel’s chest.

The large square is crowded with more Humans than Castiel thinks he has ever seen, and they are led through the crowd, which parts dutifully, and up the steps, to stand the other side of the Winchester family.

John looks tired—Dean was right—Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man looking so downtrodden. Bobby stands beside him. His hand rests reassuringly on John’s shoulder. Sam has grown considerably—Castiel thinks he would now stand at least at the Angel’s height, if not even taller; where he once could barely measure up—but he has yet to bulk out, as Dean has.

—And _Dean._

He looks more of a man than Castiel thinks he has ever seen the Prince. He has grown, still more, although not in the proportions of his younger brother—and Castiel is almost certain that Dean is far taller than him now. He fills out his robes more—his jaw is more defined, his brow heavier, and Castiel thinks he can see the ghost of stubble lining Dean’s chin and jawline.

His neck is thicker, his hands more calloused; and there is a mature distance in Dean’s eyes, too. He looks older than Castiel remembers. Years older; and aged in the way that Michael seems aged: as though he has seen and felt too much in this weary life. The weight of his ever increasing responsibilities—and of his father’s condition—hang heavy on his face.

He looks _tired_ , not like a child after a long day, nor a blacksmith or a carpenter after hours of labour, but a long, bottomless, sleepless tired that knows no forgiveness or relief.

The smiling, joking boy Castiel once knew has all but completely disappeared from behind the now thick, defensive veil of Dean’s eyes. Castiel swallows and bites his lip. Dean only looks out ahead of him. He doesn’t glance back at the Angel.

The speeches end to rapturous applause. It turns to dust in Castiel’s ears.

They are invited inside of the castle, and Bobby—rather pointedly, on Dean’s refusal to so much as acknowledge Castiel—asks Dean to show Castiel to his quarters.

Castiel doesn’t know why, but he trembles on his way up there. Dean walks ahead of him by a few steps, not even looking back at the Angel.

“You’re staying in a different wing of the castle than the one you’ve slept in on your past visits,” Dean states, and Castiel thinks of how his voice sounds deeper, and of how it grazes against the Human’s throat as he speaks. He sounds impersonal, blunt and forward, and Castiel looks down, his heart aching at something—although he isn’t sure what.

“Right,” He nods.

There is a silence. Castiel thinks that he can feel it crushing his lungs. Whether it lasts for minutes, or hours, the Angel cannot tell, but he is relieved when finally Dean stops outside a door.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” He states, turning to look at Castiel for what feels like the first time since Castiel arrived. “Your brothers and sister will be just down the corridor if you need them. Father has elected our finest knights and guards to patrol this corridor to ensure your safety.”

And this information answers Castiel’s question about visiting Dean in the evenings.

“Thank you,” Castiel nods, bowing his head. Dean nods back, and looks as though he is about to leave, yet something makes the now young man hold back, and he turns round to Castiel again, hesitant.

“Um—So you fought in the Demon war?” He asks.

“Yes…” Castiel confirms.

“And—and you’re okay?” Dean asks.

“I am,” Castiel answers without too much trouble in making his tone sincere. “—I understand why you hate war so much, now, though.”

Dean nods.

“—And how are your nightmares?” Castiel asks cautiously.

Dean presses his lips into a thin line.

“They’re worse than ever,” He admits. He looks guilty at this, as though it is his own fault, though Castiel cannot understand why.

“Oh,” Castiel frowns. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Dean shrugs, and looks like he’s ready to leave again, when Castiel speaks up.

“—I’ve missed you,” He states, before he has time to think this through. Dean’s expression changes.

“And I’ve missed you,” He replies earnestly. “Every day I’ve wished you were here.”

_Oh._

Castiel’s heart crumples. And it hurts, but this is a good pain; a pain that he drinks up because he knows that _Dean, his_ Dean, is the cause of it.

Dean waves shortly and leaves. The Human’s head is held up high as he walks, nearly marches, back down the corridor they came down—but it is not held up by arrogance. And in any case, the boy’s shoulders slump down with whatever it is that burdens them.

What has happened since Castiel was last in Hera?

He doubts he’ll ever know. Dean is refusing to talk to him. He sighs and enters his room. His chest aches.

At the banquet that evening, Castiel sits next to the Human Prince, but Dean remains silent for its entirety—he spends most of his time glancing apprehensively over to his father as though he is afraid the man is going to collapse where he sits.

There is music and lyres and dancing and laughter all around them, but somehow it cannot seem to seep closer than a few metres around the pair, as though they sit in an impermeable fortress where all the joy in the world has been drawn out like water from a drying well.

The Main Hall is decorated in whites and golds—the wedding colours of Hera and Eofor, Dean’s Mother and Fatherlands, flowers and vines wreathed up the pillars and woven under the windows which shed dappled light onto white roses and pale green leaves. It’s beautiful; Castiel says so; Dean says nothing. Only hangs his head and pokes at his food and refuses to look up.

His right hand is still scarred from where a Demon blade ripped through it. Castiel watches as it plays inattentively with Dean’s fork, which plays just as inattentively with Dean’s food.

And Castiel trudges back up to his room with the grey sky darkening outside of the castle windows.

That night he lies awake, staring up at the ceiling above him. It is decorated with hundreds of Angels, quite fittingly, all with light pouring out of them: their eyes, their mouths, their hands. He doesn’t know what it means, or what it’s meant to represent. Only that it reflects Humanity’s continued deification of Angelkind, and it makes Castiel feel a little ill.

This room is filled with none of the warmth or familiarity that the other quarters came to hold for him.

He thinks it is around midnight when he gets up out of his bed and opens the door to his quarters.

“Your Highness?” A voice outside calls cautiously out of the penetrating darkness.

“Yes?” Castiel nods.

“You shouldn’t really leave your quarters—”

“I cannot sleep.” Castiel explains. “And when I cannot sleep, I go on walks to calm my nerves.”

“Of course,” The guard nods. “However, for your own safety—”

“I’ve visited this castle before, I know it well enough.”

“I’m sure you do, my Lord—may I walk with you, in any case?”

“I won’t need that, thank you,” Castiel bows his head, but then considers that in the darkness, it is very unlikely the guard was able to see him do this.

“In the interest of safety, Sire—”

“I will be fine, thank you,” Castiel says again, attempting to balance himself between sounding firm and polite. “I am able to defend myself, if needs be, and I very much doubt that Hera will come under invasion tonight, or any night soon.”

“At least let me give you a torch.”

“Thank you; that would be very useful.”

Castiel takes the object carefully when it is handed to him, thinking of how it seems almost crude compared to the oil lanterns he uses in his own home.

“Should I wait for you to come back?” He asks.

“I’m not sure,” Castiel admits. Perhaps he would sleep better down in the courtyard where he and Dean used to meet—in which case, he won’t be back until the early hours of morning. “Don’t trouble yourself with it,” He decides. And then: “And please don’t share that I’ve gone wandering the castle with anyone. My brother wouldn’t approve, I’m sure.”

The guard nods. Castiel fears that this Human thinks the Angel petulant and stubborn, but he doesn’t reconsider his answers. He holds his torch out ahead of him, the flame curling and dancing unpredictably, making shadows grow out from where none should form, let alone twist and play with each other in the changing light.

Castiel walks down the corridor that he knows holds Dean’s quarters, out of an aching sense of longing that turns his heart the colour of ice. More guards ask him questions on the way, but his answers are always similar to those he gave to the first.

And then he stops just outside of Dean’s room, and sighs. He misses Dean—he misses _his_ Dean, Dean before all the responsibilities turned him into something flat and hard; Dean who would grin and infuriate Castiel and understand all that the Angel had to say and kiss him out of nowhere, crumbling away any and all other of Castiel’s thoughts.

Not this Dean.

A cry snaps Castiel out of his daze.

It’s Dean. Just like the first night of Castiel’s first stay. He’s having nightmares again.

There is another, and another, and Castiel hears one of the guards muttering to another that there’s nothing to be done; that these occur every night, that Dean is always angry with whoever dares to wake him.

But Castiel doesn’t care about Dean’s anger. Anger is better than indifference. And emotions—whatever they may be—are better than none.

In any case, Dean’s nightmare sounds far more terrible than the one Castiel remembers overhearing on his first night in the Great Castle of Hera.

A sob sounds from inside the room, muffled, as if Dean has bit it into his pillow, and at last, Castiel cautiously pushes the door open.

“Dean?” He asks, but Dean continues to sob, his body shuddering from where he lies. “Dean?” He asks again, a little louder, this time.

Dean cries, his body trembling, and before Castiel can think, he is beside Dean’s bed, his hand is on Dean’s shoulder, and he is calling Dean’s name again, far louder than he had before.

Dean jolts awake, sitting up with another cry—it makes Castiel flinch back. He winces and braces himself for the stampede of anger, but Dean only looks confused.

“Cas?” He asks, voice ringing and shaking with desperation. Castiel makes some kind of noise of confirmation, still terrified—but Dean lets out a shuddering sigh and gets up, trembling, pulling Castiel into his arms. “Cas—you’re here—” He sobs, again, pressing his face into the Angels shoulder, and Castiel doesn’t know what to do, so he winds his arms around Dean’s body and pulls him close.

“Yes. I’m here,” He confirms softly. “I’m right here, Dean.”

When Dean’s crying has subsided somewhat, he tells Castiel of all his nightmares. His nightmares of losing Sammy in war—of John dying and Dean having to take his place on the throne, of his own experiences in battle; replaying constantly in his mind. Of how these nightmares came back after Castiel last left Hera and nothing he does, no sleeping draught he takes, can stop them.

Healers have crushed valerian and lavender and steeped them in hot water for Dean to drink as a peace draught; they have placed the pale flowers around his room in white-and-lilac sprigs to guard his sleep, yet none of it works.

Dean sits on his bed and Castiel joins him—something which the Human looks relieved at, pulling Castiel tightly around him again, the Angel still feeling more than slightly taken aback.

But he has Dean again. If not in the way he had him before, then in a different way. Dean is broken and damaged and terrified; but Castiel would be damned if he ever chose to leave the Human’s side.

Words spill from Dean’s lips—they don’t stop—more than making up for the conversation lost over Castiel’s stay so far; Dean is alone because nobody understands him, nobody wants him, he is afraid of his own father and he is afraid of losing him, he’s afraid of _himself_ and of the things he’s done—everyone thinks that he’s doing fine, but he’s _not_ ; he’s really not—and he’s missed Castiel. He’s _really_ missed Castiel.

And the Angel doesn’t think before he pulls Dean back into his arms, lying back on the bed and entwining his body around Dean’s. But the Human doesn’t seem happy with just this.

He groans, like he needs something desperately, like it _hurts_ how badly he needs it, like a man starving in the desert, and moves up to Castiel’s lips; kissing them softly in the darkness. The touch is gentle and barely there, it’s like the falling of snowflakes on Castiel’s lips, sweet and soft—but it’s filled with a burning need, desperate, and then Dean pulls Castiel on top of him, soft tears still leaking onto his face, his kisses becoming more frantic and demanding; and Castiel only now begins to think.

“Dean—” He tries, but Dean groans beneath him at his name on Castiel’s lips. “Dean—” He attempts again, but Dean pulls him down for another claiming kiss.

“Cas, please,” Dean is almost sobbing, now. “Kiss me—please, kiss me.”

“I _am_ , but—”

“Don’t stop _—”_

“Dean—”

“Touch me,” Dean moans, lifting his hips up from the bed, grinding them up against Castiel, who gasps at the touch, because it feels _good—really_ good, and the Angel loses himself to the touch and motion for a moment, letting Dean lift his hips and rut them against Castiel’s over and over again. _“Fuck_ me.” The Human mouths against Castiel’s ear, and Castiel groans and closes his eyes, something burning wrapping itself tightly at the base of his torso and around the width of his chest.

But he can’t do this—he _can’t,_ because this isn’t Dean—he’s not himself, he’s not _thinking,_ and when Dean moves his hips to roll them up against Castiel’s again, the Angel pulls back, a frown twisting at his face.

“Cas—” Dean almost cries, but Castiel presses both his hands against Dean’s shoulders, pushing him back, grounding him, just as Michael sometimes does to Castiel in attempts to calm the younger Angel.

“Dean,” He swallows hard, panting the cool air of Dean’s room. “You’re not thinking—”

“I _am_ ,” Dean growls, pushing his knee in between Castiel’s legs and pressing them open, but Castiel pushes the Human back again.

“No, you’re not, Dean—look at you. You’re in tears—you’ve been in that state for _at least_ the past hour or so; you—”

“I _want_ you.”

Dean’s words are filled with a burning need, rasped out through a tight throat, rough and heavy with desire and restlessness, but Castiel _can’t_ allow them. He shakes his head.

“Dean, I can’t let you do this…”

Even in the darkness, Castiel doesn’t miss the way Dean’s lip curls.

“Cas—” He frowns, but Castiel only repeats his answer.

“You’re not in you’re right state of mind, Dean,” He reminds, as gently as possible, but Dean’s jaw clenches bitterly and his face sets with something harsh and hard and angry.

“I’m not a _child,_ Cas—” Dean can’t know how ironic this statement is, considering the petulance of both his expression and tone, as he speaks.

“But you’re acting like one,” Castiel replies, firmly and very unamused, now.

“You know what? Forget it.” Dean’s face sets, rigid and hostile. “You wouldn’t know what fucking someone _is,_ anyway,” He sneers. “I bet sex is just another thing added to the long-list-of-shit-Castiel’s-siblings-never-fucking-tell-him-of. You’ll find out when you’re twenty, I guess? Along with everything else? You don’t even know what I’m _talking_ about,” He spits. “You’re too fucking innocent—ignorant, even—you’re too _immature,_ you’re like a fucking _child._ I don’t know why I assumed you’d get it, I don’t know why I’d _want_ someone like you to fuck me—”

Castiel’s jaw clenches.

“Don’t talk to me like that, Dean,” He growls. “This is for your own good.”

“You’re telling me what’s good for me, now?!”

“Yes,” Castiel nods shortly, nostrils flaring. “You’re not yourself. And I don’t know what that entails, but I know that to carry on—it would be wrong. Of me. I’d be taking advantage of you.”

“How so?” Dean scowls.

“You’re emotionally compromised, Dean— _look_ at you.”

“I’ve _always_ been emotionally compromised when I’m around you!”

“What does that mean?” Castiel frowns.

“What do you _think_ it means?” Dean bites.

Castiel sighs and gets up, off the bed.

“Enough. I’m going back to my room,” He shakes his head. “I’ve had enough of this,” He glares at Dean, flares out his wings, letting the mess of passion and dispassion that storms within him gush through him, straight at Dean. “This is our first real conversation of my stay, and _already_ I’ve had enough of you _.”_

“Cas—”

Castiel ignores the plea, rolling his eyes and snarling.

“Fuck off, Dean.”

“Cas, please—” Dean tries, but it is to no avail.

“Fuck _off,_ Dean.” Castiel growls again. He doesn’t normally curse, if at all, but a bubbling rage is simmering tight and loudly in his gut. “And get the _fuck_ over yourself.”

Dean looks down for the first time in their argument. He nods. His hands tremble, as he stands up, then sits down, defeated, again.

“Sorry.” His voice has gone small once more. “Sorry,” He repeats.

Castiel sighs, stopping at the door.

“Just stop it, Dean.”

“I have—” Dean frowns in confusion, more lost tears leaking onto his face.

“No, I meant stop _apologising.”_

“But I fucked up—”

Castiel sighs again. He’s tired, but… Not of Dean. Never of Dean.

“Look,” He softens. “It’s fine. I’m tired. It’s not your fault—”

“No, it is— _everything_ is—and I’m sorry, Cas—I just missed you—I’ve missed you, and then you were in my room again; and you were there for me, and I got—I don’t know, it all felt too much, and I _needed_ you, and I fucked up, and I’m so _sorry_.”

“It’s okay—”

 _“No it’s not,”_ Dean spits, more at himself than anything else. His tears are silent, this time. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

Castiel feels a frown twitch at his forehead again, but he’s not sure what this one is for. He bites his lip and steps back towards the Human, again, brushing his hand against Dean’s shoulder, squeezing it as reassuringly as he can.

Dean trembles and closes his eyes, leaning into the touch.

“I’m sorry,” He mumbles, hoarsely, again. Castiel leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of Dean’s head, without thinking. Dean’s short hair brushes against Castiel’s nose, prickling it softly. He doesn’t stop to think about how much he wants to stop and inhale it slowly.

Dean shivers. Castiel presses the Human’s head against his chest and wraps his arms around the young man’s body once more.

“I’m sorry,” Dean croaks, again. He presses his face so firmly against Castiel that the Angel thinks Dean is trying to bury himself alive in Castiel’s flesh. “I missed you—I missed kissing you and then you were _here_ —”

“I missed you, too,” Castiel reminds, stroking Dean’s hair softly.

“I know I’m a mess—I’m trying to be strong—” Dean’s voice rakes against his throat.

“You’re not a mess. And I know you’re trying to be strong,” Castiel says gently. Dean presses his face harder against Castiel’s body. The Angel swallows, with some difficulty. “I won’t leave, if you don’t want me to.” He says, after a quiet marked only by Dean’s sobs.

“You’d stay?” Dean asks, looking up at Castiel. Castiel nods quietly, his fingers still carding through Dean’s hair with as much tenderness as he thinks he is capable of. “Stay,” Dean pleads, twisting his hands into knots in Castiel’s nightshirt. “Please stay.”

Castiel nods again and slides Dean back into his bed, before crawling in beside him. Dean breathes in shallow, fast breaths; but Castiel lets his hand stray into Dean’s hair again, effectively calming him—albeit a little slowly. And then Dean edges closer to Castiel, pressing his face into the Angel’s chest again. Castiel sighs gently.

“I’m sorry for not talking, earlier today, Cas,” Dean mumbles against Castiel’s body. Castiel hardly needs an apology, the sound of the name _Cas_ on Dean’s lips flowers enough affection in the Angel’s hear to forgive Dean for any amount of foolish stubbornness. “—I… I was scared.”

“Of what?” Castiel frowns.

There is a small silence before Dean answers.

“Being weak,” He sighs.

The Angel squints in the darkness.

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“I already feel too much,” Dean mumbles. “And it makes me weak.”

“Feelings are not weaknesses, Dean,” Castiel frowns. “I would know, more than anyone.”

Dean nods against Castiel’s chest.

“Thank you for staying, Cas.”

“I’ll never leave you.”

Dean’s body trembles.

“Promise?”

He lifts his head in the darkness to peer up into Castiel’s eyes. In the stripes of moonlight that eek in through the shutters of Dean’s windows, Castiel can make out the fresh, bright green of Dean’s eyes, and how these are filled with so much perfect, innocent hope.

“I promise,” Castiel confirms.

It’s an impossible commitment; one that Castiel should know better than to make, but right now, he doesn’t care. Dean’s fingers wander tentatively at first, into his feathers, and Castiel sighs at the touch. He’s always loved Dean’s hands against his wings.

He squeezes Dean’s body tight against his own, because he doesn’t know what else to say. His wing slides over Dean’s body, blanketing it, and he thinks he hears Dean hum happily against the Angel’s chest when the Human lays his head back down.

He’s missed Dean. He’s missed _this._

He says as much. Dean agrees.

In the next moment, they are both asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

When they wake up, Dean is much more himself. The same sadness and weight of responsibility still hang heavy in his eyes, but at least he smiles at Castiel—although somewhat unconvincingly—and presses a kiss onto the Angel’s neck whilst muttering another apology for the night before.

Castiel tells him that it’s all alright. Dean looks up at him with soft eyes.

Castiel wanders if Dean is used to being forgiven; or if he even considers himself worthy of it.

Bobby informs Dean that he can spend the day with Castiel—he promises to take care of all of Dean’s duties of the day—and although Dean seems a little anxious about this, he thanks Sir Robert and accepts the offer.

“What do you want to do, Cas?” Dean asks when they are out of earshot of Bobby and Dean’s father, in the Entrance Hall of the castle.

“I don’t mind,” Castiel replies, shrugging. “We didn’t get to go riding together, the last time I was here. I think I’d like to do that again.”

“Okay,” Dean nods. Something happy twinges behind the Human’s eyes. “We can do that.”

Castiel manages to get Dean to speak more on the ride. The boy tells Castiel of John’s drinking, of how he thinks Sam is growing scared of their father—he says that he’s scared they’re going to lose the Demon war—that he thinks it was a mistake starting the war in the first place; that he’s scared that if they _do_ lose, the Kingdom will be conquered, and he doesn’t like to think about what will happen after that. Castiel bites his lip, troubled.

“And you are this anxious all the time?” Castiel asks, looking over to Dean, concerned.

“Today is a pretty good day, actually,” Dean laughs bitterly.

“So you think about these things often?”

“Constantly,” Dean confirms. “I can’t get out of my own mind.” He pauses. “I wish I had you here in the castle, always. You’re the only one I can talk to—you’re the only one who understands me. You’re my—my best friend. I don’t feel so alone when I’m with you.”

“You’re never alone, Dean,” Castiel says softly. “And you’ll always have me.”

Dean looks back at Castiel with his jade eyes glazed over. Castiel doesn’t know what the smile that Dean is wearing means. It makes his insides turn to dust, in any case.

“I promise,” He adds, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and knows that Dean certainly doesn’t, either.

They stop under a tree with great hanging branches and brilliant light green leaves that tumble down like vines. Dean reveals that he has brought a small lunch for the two of them—and so, while their horses graze quietly at the ground around the trees where they are tied, Dean and the Angel sit and talk still more together, whilst eating the bread and apples, berries and meats that Dean has brought.

Castiel tells Dean more of his experience at war; says how terrified Michael was to see him go and mentions how confused he was by his brother’s anxiety—Dean states that Castiel’s brother seems to care for him as a parent would care for a child; so perhaps he was simply terrified Castiel would get injured, or indeed worse. Castiel _did_ get injured, but not too severely. And he supposes he should count his blessings that what happened to Dean when _he_ fought in the Demon war, did not happen to him.

Castiel asks how Dean’s wounds are and Dean explains that he is still given the oil from Ellen to help with his scars, which does a good enough job. His bones have healed sufficiently well now, and really, all that is left are his nightmares. Mental scars are a little more unknowable than the physical, he supposes.

“When did this happen?” Dean asks, laughing bitterly at Castiel-doesn’t-quite-know-what, his tone unimpressed and disillusioned.

“When did _what_ happen?” Castiel asks, tilting his head to the side and squinting at Dean, perplexed.

“Us. All this shit. Me getting so fucked up.”

Castiel frowns, still not understanding.

“When did we stop being those two kids who met when they were seventeen? Who shared secret kisses and thought that everything, in the end, would be alright?” Dean laughs.

“Things still _can_ be alright, Dean,” Castiel reminds. “And anyway, it’s been over two _years_ since then,” He continues. “A lot can change in that time.”

“Yeah, well, I wish it hadn’t.”

“What makes you say that?” Castiel frowns, still puzzled by everything Dean is saying.

“Things were simpler back then. I didn’t overthink shit as much.”

“And what do you overthink, now?”

“Everything.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“Alright, like, us. I never used to overthink the two of us,” Dean explains.

“And you overthink us now?” Castiel asks, tilting his head in mild confusion, squinting at the Human.

“A little, yes,” Dean admits.

“How so?”

“I don’t know,” Dean sighs. “—So, for example, how are the two of us—how are we going to fit together? How will it all work out? And what happens if—or, _when_ —it doesn’t?”

“I don’t follow…” Castiel frowns, squinting slightly at Dean.

“Cas, you’re gonna live for hundreds of years longer than me— _way_ longer than that, actually—and I’m gonna grow old and my body’s gonna age and I’m gonna _die,_ just like a normal Human would—because I _am_ a normal Human—while you’ll not even be a tenth of the way into your life.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, dumbly. He hadn’t even considered this possibility before. But Dean is right—and it is only now starting to dawn on Castiel; he feels as though he is being dragged underwater and waves are folding over him, because how _could_ he and Dean work—and why has Michael not even _thought_ about this?

“And what about our homes?” Dean continues, shaking his head as though he has thought about this on countless occasions and yet has been unable to answer the question himself. “Where will you live? Where will I live? ‘Cause all of this is really happening now, apparently—and you love the mountains, ‘cause they’re your home, and I don’t blame you for that. But then, I love _my_ home—and more specifically, I love Sammy, and I’m not about to leave him any time soon.”

Castiel nods, but Dean has riled himself up now, and he continues.

“And am I still gonna be King of this place? Because on the one hand, being let off the hook would be something of a blessing, like, _seriously—_ but on the other, what am I meant to do, if I _don’t_ become King? My whole life—that’s what I’ve been told I’ll become. What do I do if I _don’t?_ Will Sammy take my place? If we move to an Angel Kingdom, will I just be the _husband_ of an Archangel, nothing more? And if you come down here, what will _your_ position be? Will you still be an Archangel? Will you rule over Angels as well as Humans? _”_

Castiel is about to say that he doesn’t know, and apologise that he holds none of the answers to any of Dean’s questions, but the Human Prince continues speaking; and Castiel wishes that he wouldn’t, because there was a time when Dean had told the Angel that he was _glad_ Castiel was the one Dean was to marry; and now Dean seems all too happy in pointing out each flaw in their guardians’ plan of the two of them being wed.

It’s deflating all the things that had previously been swelling happily inside of Castiel’s chest; and it’s like Dean doesn’t _care_ that he’s pointing out all the ways in which Dean and Castiel’s relationship will inevitably fall apart.

And now that the Angel thinks about it, the relationship _will_ inevitably fall apart.

“On top of all that, if I leave Hera—what then? Do I go up, into the mountains, with you? But what of Sammy? I’ll barely ever be able to see him—I’ll only see him as often as I see you, now, if not less than that—and I don’t think I’ll be able to deal with that. He’s my _brother_ —he’s been the best thing; the _only_ thing, in my whole life—the only thing that’s kept me waking up in the mornings—and I know I have you too, Cas; and you have me as well, now—but before I’d even met you, I had Sammy, and he was the only thing that mattered. Keeping him safe, being with him, he was all that I cared about.”

Dean sighs resignedly, looking down.

“He’s one of the only _good_ things in my life,” He repeats, “and I can’t just leave him. I can’t abandon him.”

Castiel presses his lips together and nods.

“That _is_ a lot to worry about.” He admits.

“I told you, I overthink shit too much.” Dean sighs, running his hands over his face wearily.

“Or, perhaps, our guardians have simply not thought through all this, _enough,”_ Castiel points out. “Everything you’re saying is true, after all, and they’re all valid concerns.”

“Yes, but how do we fix them?”

Castiel bites his lip.

His gut twists sharply before he answers—because he knows what it is he is about to commit to—and in a way, it _scares_ him how unperturbed he is by the idea; and in another way, something strong and steady and accepting burns in the depths of his heart, knowing that this is the wisest decision of his life… And this same part of him _knows_ that Dean is worth it. That he’s more than worth it.

Castiel is giving up everything for Dean, because Dean _is_ everything.

“Angels don’t _have_ to live for centuries,” He reminds. Dean looks up from where he sits, frowning. And suddenly his eyes widen with shock; some kind of realisation breaches his beautiful, soft features and he shakes his head quickly.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that—” He fumbles over his words, sitting up clumsily and staring earnestly into Castiel’s eyes.

“You’re not asking,” The Angel shakes his head. “I’m stating a fact—it’s a fact, Dean—and if anything, I’m _offering_.”

“You’d do that?” Dean’s expression falls somewhere between worry and something else entirely, and Castiel finds it difficult to pinpoint. “Really?”

“Yes,” The Angel nods. All sincerity and earnestness. He feels open, raw, now—as though saying this has revealed something intimate and private in his soul which had previously rested deep inside of him—something naked and vulnerable that states honestly just what Dean means to him.

For a horrible draining moment Castiel feels unsure of whether or not he should have offered this solution to Dean; whether Dean understands its weight and severity truly; or  even returns this deep and most private affections—or, indeed, if Dean would do the same for him.

But then again, in another way, it hardly even matters to Castiel. Because he knows what the Human means to him. Which is probably a little too close to _everything._

“Cas, you realise what you’re saying, right? I mean—”

“Curiously enough, Dean, yes, I do,” Castiel frowns, a twinge of frustration lacing his tone. “And I wouldn’t have offered it if I didn’t know for certain—I’m no fool, Winchester.”

“I’m not saying you are… But _Cas_ —”

“Perhaps you should take it as a compliment, Dean,” Castiel finds himself biting rather harshly in Dean’s direction, frustrated with how slow the Human is being to understand; “that I consider you important enough to me to offer such a thing.”

And more realisation dawns on Dean’s face.

This is one of the few admittances the two of them have had out loud of how much one of them means to the other—perhaps the biggest of them all; and Castiel cannot tell for the life of him if Dean is about to return the sentiment.

Dean opens and closes his mouth several times—Castiel thinks rather distractedly that the look is something similar to the expressions of the fish he has seen lazing in the shallows of the mountain lakes on summer days—before the Human speaks again.

“I mean that much to you?” He asks, his voice surprisingly quiet it is so saturated with wonder and disbelief. Castiel has to look down.

“You do,” He nods. He hears Dean huff out a sigh next to him; though what it is aimed at, he cannot tell.

But then Dean’s hand is resting—so light that it almost isn’t there—on Castiel’s; and he brushes his other hand up the Angel’s neck before smoothing his fingers underneath Castiel’s jaw, pulling the Angel’s gaze back up to his face, which is wearing an expression that makes Castiel desperately, frantically, want to look down again—but at the same time, his mind has become as a body of still, quiet water, and his breath catches in his throat. Castiel cannot tell if it is due to him overthinking, or not thinking at all.

Human eyes are softer than Angels’. Dean’s eyes in particular. Dean’s eyes are like the soft grasses in the valleys inbetween the mountains, the ones Castiel tumbled and rolled down as a child; like the leaves of the trees surrounding their lakes, the colour of spring and forests and young plants with sunlight dappling through them. They are gentle and warm on Castiel’s face now, and they make something difficult to pinpoint flutter happily in the Angel’s chest.

Dean is leaning forward again, Castiel is beginning to think that he isn’t going to reply—perhaps because he _can’t—_ when the Human’s lips graze against Castiel’s—and this touch means _more_ —it means more than any of the other touches the two of them have shared before. Which, Castiel realises, is really saying something.

Dean’s hand comes to stroke up Castiel’s neck, before resting at the back of the Angel’s hair; his fingers smoothing dreamily at the dark tufts—his other hand rests at Castiel’s side, a gentle pressure there that makes Castiel’s skin prickle. They continue kissing, continue kissing and Castiel doesn’t ever want to stop: this is heaven, this is paradise, this is what God planned as perfect bliss for all her children.

His mind is almost completely clear—its surfaces are calm like smooth waters of deep running streams—only in its very centre is a storm of _Dean-Dean-Dean,_ swirling and attacking itself over and over—it churns into nothing less than a tempest inside Castiel’s skull, and Castiel doesn’t know _what_ he feels when he pulls apart from Dean, gasping for air; only that Dean is looking at him like Castiel’s eyes are made from shards of diamond.

“I have nothing that precious to give in return, Cas,” Dean says, his voice cracked and raw. “I can’t make that up to you.”

“I don’t give it with the intention of receiving something in return,” Castiel states—and it’s almost true; except he _will_ be getting something in return. He’ll be getting _Dean._ And Dean is worth more than a million years on any Earth to Castiel.

“You’ll get _me,”_ Dean says, quietly, as though he is reading Castiel’s thoughts—and he looks up at the Angel, nervously, as if he has made as big a statement as the one Castiel has made, as though he is being bold and presumptuous, which is ridiculous. Castiel almost laughs at it; as if near-immortality could ever be as valuable as a few decades in this world with Castiel’s beloved _._

“I will,” He agrees. His lips curve into a smile, bright as the dawn. “I will get you,” He repeats. “And that means more to me than any number of years of life.”

Dean’s face reddens, while something hazy and overjoyed glasses over his eyes, and he kisses Castiel again—hard this time, as Castiel loses himself in Dean’s touch.

The furore in Castiel’s mind doesn’t leave for the entirety of the celebrations.

The two of them spend another few hours in the forest together; talking, touching, before deciding to make their way back up to the castle, where Dean shows Castiel a book he thinks the Angel might like, reading a passage of it to him. Castiel is barely able to control his joy and Dean’s eyes crinkle at their corners when he looks up from the text and back at Castiel.

That evening music is playing at the feast and there is a great deal of dancing. Sam grins and suggests that Dean offer Castiel a dance, but Dean scowls at his brother and curses him away.

“He was only teasing, you know, Dean,” Castiel reminds gently. Dean sighs.

“Yeah, but I’m really not in the mood for it, to be honest,” He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. “It’s like, it’s fine when it’s just you, you know? When me and you are alone together, I’m fine. But all of this—” Dean gestures to the great hall in front of them. “—It’s too much. It’s bullshit.”

“I don’t follow,” Castiel frowns, and Dean turns back to him, despondently, eyebrows sloping upwards with innocent hopelessness.

“I just—I wanted it to be real, you know?”

“Real?” Castiel repeats.

“Yeah—and when I’m alone with you, it feels real,” He confesses. “But here, in this hall, in front of everyone—it feels like everything has been planned out _for_ us. Like we haven’t had any choice in any of it. And then I’m reminded that we haven’t really, and that it _isn’t_ real—and I hate it.”

Castiel is silent for a moment. Dean has looked away, again.

“We can _make_ it real, Dean,” He says softly after a pause between the two of them. Dean looks back up at the Angel and Castiel sees something he was starting to believe had gone for good from behind the veil of Dean’s shimmering eyes.

Hope.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please comment with any feedback!


	13. To Feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long! I know a lot of you have been waiting on this for a while, and I'm very sorry for the delay. Hopefully the fluff of this chapter (AND SMUT!!!) will make up for the chapter's tardiness.
> 
> **Some notes:**
> 
> \- This chapter was originally going to be like 13,000+ words long, and have a whole BUTTLOAD of plot happen in it, but considering all the plot crammed into one place, and the range of stuff it was going to cover, it felt like way too much. So I've halved the chapter, I'm writing the next chapter (13) to slot inbetween what was originally the first and second half of chapter 12, which will now be chapters 12 and 14. Chapter 13 will be from Cas's POV, and 14 will be from Dean's. I hope that all makes sense!  
> \- As a result of this I am really super hoping I'll be able to write quickly so that I can post chapter 13 for you all! Unfortunately I am very busy with work at the moment and 3 different jobs, as well as a lot of personal upheaval which I won't go into detail about, but I just want to make known so that I'm being completely honest with you all about the shittiness of my updates atm.  
> \- This chapter features smut, so if you don't want to read that, just skip the last part of the update.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! Thank you so much for being so so patient with me! You're all the best ever :)

> **“I’m a wretch, but I love.”**
> 
> **—         Fyodor Dostoevsky, from The Brothers Karamazov**
> 
>  
> 
>  

Dean has tried to be strong.

That day in the forest, where Cas offered so much to him—where he offered to live a Human life for Dean, _only_ for Dean—something tore Dean’s heart open. He doesn’t, and can never deserve what Cas is offering—what Cas is _giving_ him _—_ but he doesn’t want to give it up, either.

He wants to curl what Cas promised to him that day deep inside his heart. He wants to bury the words under his skin; wants the sentiment seared into his flesh and infused into his blood and carved into his bones so that he can never forget it; can never forget that for a shimmering, brilliant moment, that he meant _so much_ to the Angel that Cas would offer up his own mortality in exchange for happiness with the Human prince.

It’s a fortunate distraction, at least, from the truth of the King’s state of mind and health: John grows more and more distant by the day—a shadow passes over his face and clings to the skin under his eyes with every moment that passes. His words to those around him grow ever colder, more clipped; Dean is beginning to think his father is never going to get better. Something changed in the King after he nearly lost Dean; something broke, snapped, raw and helpless as a tree torn from the soil by a storm.

And of course, it’s Dean’s fault.

Besides this, he’s terrified the Herans are destined to lose the Demon war.

The Demons have been fighting with more ferocity, more power than ever, as if suddenly a blood-lust so intense has come over an entire people that no amount of Humans set against them may quell their forces.

Hera, despite being the largest of all the Earthly Kingdoms, is running out of troops quickly after fifteen years of harsh warfare. And Hera will almost certainly be conquered if the Angels pull their troops out of the war.

John is clearly unwell with the worry of this—Dean has been taking over the many duties the King finds himself unable to carry out; and now he shares over half of the King’s official responsibilities. As John grows sicker by the day, Dean has reached the certain, ugly realisation that he holds no desire to be King.

Where Kingship once appeared a noble and powerful station; he now sees it as a pair of shackles—or a weight to be tied to his feet. And once it is tied, Dean will be cast underwater to drown. It’s destined, it would seem, to destroy Dean just as it destroys his father.

Despite all this, and despite his deathly fear of everything that ruling a Kingdom is promised to entail, Dean soldiers on. This time, for both his _and_ his father’s sake.

When Castiel had arrived, and the princes’ betrothal had been announced to thunderous applause from the Four Earthly Nations, Dean had built up walls around his heart higher and thicker than those encircling the citadel. He had tried not to feel—even for Castiel.

The problem is, Cas has broken this resolve inside of Dean, and broke it the moment he and Dean first met, much like he broke Dean’s resolve to hate Angels, two years earlier. What’s even worse is that Dean doesn’t think he even _cares._ He’s never felt so safe, nor has he felt so at _peace._ And he knows it’s wrong to do so—he’s been taught his whole life to remain watchful, on guard—because nobody can say what’s out there, waiting in the darkness—but Castiel is warmth and safety and all the comfort Dean has ever missed.

So, curling into Castiel’s arms at night is something which comes with more ease to Dean than it probably should.

After watching them closely, and then missing them so dearly for so long, he has realised how much it is he likes the Angel’s smiles—he likes that he is one of the few people who is able to pull them from Castiel’s lips. He likes, still more, how truly awful the Angel is with social cues and how he could probably tear Dean apart with a single blow; but instead has stated that he’d do just this to anyone who would lay a single hand on Dean.

He likes it when Cas is confused, or when he’s concentrating on something, or when he’s lost to his own thoughts. Dean likes that more than any of his features; it is Castiel’s eyes that change the most when he smiles.

And there’s more to it, too. Way more. Dean _hates_ how he feels for Castiel, hate how it sears and storms something bright through his otherwise dark insides, hates how Castiel makes his soul tremble as though it is in the presence of holiness; he doesn’t like to think about how contented he feels when Cas’s shoulder is brushing against his own, how alive he feels when Cas’s hand grazes his, how joy floods him at a smile from the Angel.

He resolves to clapping Cas on the shoulder warmly when others are around, to ducking his eyes in the presence of Castiel’s gaze, to pull his hand away the same way fingers are sharply retracted at the burn of touching hot metal.

Feeling things is a sign of weakness. No matter how many times Castiel says otherwise.

As for the celebrations in Hera at the announcement of Dean and Castiel’s proposal, they are ridiculous. Sixty days of revelry are promised, the last seven of which will be rounded off by great banquets and feasts and dancing. Hera’s halls are decorated with silver fastenings and green and blue linen embroidered with gold; no cup runs dry, no mouth is left empty.

It’s ostentatious, self-serving, Dean squirms with guilt when he thinks of the rags worn in the streets and the leaf gold worn in the Halls of the palace. Yet despite this, Dean likes the affectionate spark in Cas’s eyes as he regards Heran—well, Human—traditions.

As the moon begins to wane, and the Angels have stayed in Hera for near a quarter of their time, Sam and Ellen finally manage to push Dean into dancing during one of the feasts in the Dining Hall. They push him more literally here, than figuratively—and Dean thinks he catches Castiel laughing at him, much to his own chagrin.

He uses this as the excuse to pull Cas up to start dancing with him—it isn’t because he likes the feeling of Cas in his arms; or Cas’s face when he’s confused or taken aback—it isn’t even because he likes the thought of Cas smiling and dancing with him more than almost anything in this or any other universe.

It really isn’t that.

A great deal of cheering and whooping goes up—much of it emitting from Gabriel’s end of the Hall—as Dean pulls Castiel to his feet and spins the clumsy Angel round. For one so elegant and precise on the battlefield, Castiel is hilariously awkward and stumbling in his dancing.

And because Dean is scared of how Castiel is making him feel, he takes a hold of Jo’s hand, pulling her from her servant work, and spinning her around with them. Jo complains and rolls her eyes, but Dean is filled with joy at the way Castiel treats her; smiling affectionately and joking softly with her, mainly at Dean’s expense.

The Heran people, if not _all_ the people of the four Earthly Kingdoms seem to love the idea of a romance between a Human and an Angel: pouring into the city to join the revelry come Humans from the Western Coasts of Hera, and even lands as far away as the Hook of Dione. Dean doesn’t think that they’ve stopped to consider the fact that maybe, the two people betrothed didn’t have too much choice in the matter.

Not that he minds this now—but he wanted it to be real. And Cas is trying his hardest, Dean can tell, to make it as real as possible. But neither of them _asked_ for this. And it makes Dean doubt that Cas would choose to marry Dean freely.

They’ve spent every night together since the beginning of Cas’s stay. The guards have learnt to ignore either of them wandering to the other person’s room—it’s common knowledge to the Heran knights, now, that the two young princes who are pledged to be wed already spend each night in each other’s arms.

Humiliated after the first night of Castiel’s return, Dean had woken up loathing himself, more than ever, for how completely he had come apart in Castiel’s arms; for how he had practically _begged_ for Castiel to _take_ him, only to have the Angel deny him and state that he’d be taking advantage of Dean’s vulnerability. And that part had hurt, too. The fact that Dean had been vulnerable—the fact that Cas had _seen_ him in this state; had probably thought him useless and pathetic and deplorable—it kills Dean. He burns with shame at the memory.

But on the third night, Cas dragged Dean into his room; pressing his body hard against the door and pinning him there, and had kissed Dean’s mouth raw.

They never do any more than this.

Even now, this is as far as either will go: one kissing the other and holding him close. Dean wonders if they might have fucked by now, if he hadn’t fallen apart quite so badly on that first night, but it’s useless to ponder and worry over, anyway. Maybe Cas genuinely _doesn’t_ know about sex—which only makes Dean feel _worse_ about the insults he threw in Castiel’s direction that first night.

He wonders if Castiel finds him attractive. He wonders if the Angel finds _anyone_ attractive.

By the eighth night, and with skin crawling out of unfulfilled desire, Dean is starting to doubt it.

He’s having to jerk off during the times when he bathes. Cas is practically kissing his mouth off any chance he gets; but Dean isn’t getting anywhere _near_ enough relief; and it’s going to drive him crazy—it already is. There is a burning itch under his skin, and if this is what Dean’s marriage to Castiel is going to be like, then he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to cope.

They sit on the balcony outside his bedroom—the one that looks over the surrounding city and out towards the forest, then beyond, to the low mountains, and then, in a violet blurred and barely-there outline, to the dim mountains at the borders of the Heavenly Realms.

Dean stole two bottles of wine from the kitchen cellars; one of them is sweet and fills his nostrils with flowers and fruits and really doesn’t seem very strong at all, the other is bitter and smoky and tastes much like the smell of rotting berries and makes Dean’s eyes water. This one is definitely strong.

Dean’s head is beginning to feel giddy; his tummy is warm and Cas’s arms and wings trailing against and wrapped around his body, moving in constant, lazy motions against him do little to stop this. His limbs are growing confusing, each one not knowing whether it’s right or left, an arm or a leg—he quickly decides he likes the feeling.

He’s been drunk before. Obviously. But never when he was alone with Cas.

His head is on the Angel’s shoulder. Cas’s hand runs absent-mindedly through his hair.

“Can you name the stars, Castiel?”

A chuckle reverberates deep in Cas’s chest, rumbling out over his lips like something pushed slowly over a cliff edge.

“Why do you call me Castiel?” He asks. His hands have moved to the short hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck; it’s all the Human can do but stop himself from shivering. Stopping himself from purring is a different matter, and as it is, Dean knows he’s fighting a losing battle on that front.

“’Cause it’s your name, and it’s pretty…”

“I think you’ve had a little too much wine.”

“It’s _summer_ wine, so it’s—”

“ _One_ of them is summerwine,” Castiel points out. “The other is strong enough to take the varnish off armour—”

Dean snorts and buries his face in the silk of Castiel’s tunic, a pale green with lavender embroidery that shimmers gently in the growing darkness.

“You asked me if I can name the stars?” Castiel asks, playing with the tufts of Dean’s hair. Dean realises that he had very nearly drifted into sleep.

Two lanterns rest on either side of them, and the ruddy glass panes flicker with the light shed by pretty, dancing orange flames. Dean can’t decide where to look: at the beautiful simplicity of these, at the familiar, vast landscape ahead of him, or at the terrible loveliness of the Angel he is to be married to.

“I did…” Dean murmurs back. The sky has the same smooth, velvety quality as the wine they have been drinking; Dean can almost taste it and this moment runs down the back of his throat thicker and sweeter than honey.

“I can name the stars,” Castiel begins, “probably vastly different things to what you name them.”

“By ‘You’, you mean Humans?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers, “and no. Herans, Eofori, Corinnians, the Dionese, even those from the Northern Tribes in your kingdom—your religions are so different; your spirituality so vast; your cultures so diverse. Those from Eofor are pantheists, they believe God inhabits everything, breathes everything, _has_ breathed everything. Others in Eofor hold that the forest and the river are not just sustained by God, but that they _are_ God. Herans believe in a God who has fled the world, and who set in place Angels to manage it—something that we have failed to do, it would seem—”

“Cas—” Dean flushes at this obvious reference to the first fight he and Castiel first had, but the Angel continues, hardly noticing, though his fingers do pick up in their gentle tracing of the skin at the back of Dean’s neck.

“The Dionese hold a religion remarkably similar to many of those of the Demons, the Corinnians—”

“Cas,” Dean nearly laughs, “I asked you what you knew about the _stars.”_

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards in the orange-blue darkness.

“Yes,” He admits, “I suppose you did.”

“And?”

“And,” Castiel draws in a long, deep, inward breath that betrays the length of the explanation he is about to give, “I know a great deal of what _Angels_ think of them. Specifically those from Evadne—”

“And what is that?”

“There,” Castiel points up to a cluster of pinpricks in the sky, “Are the twelve Angels who first settled in the mountains, who carved homes into the stone and—”

“First settled?” Dean frowns. “What does that mean?”

“Angels were Shepards, Dean, before we came to rule the mountains and the sky. We guided sheep over the face of the rocks and never once settled, until the moment that we did. And then, we settled for good.”

“I didn’t know that,” Dean murmurs quietly. Castiel glances down at him. The bright, dancing eyes of the Angel’s are veiled by a distance brought on by deep thought.

“Beside that cluster, there used to be the stars of Aovae and her Beloved; twin stars that sat next to each other in the sky,” Castiel points upwards into a dark patch that contains only one star, and seems remarkably empty, now that Dean thinks of it. “Now only one of them remains. It was taken from the sky, too,” He says, voice quiet, “but only for a time. She has returned home, in the heavens. We cannot say the same for her lover, wherever she may be.”

It is as though dozens of other stars were drawn into surrounding this single star by something, pulled in as if by magic: but there is nothing there that they could be surrounding, only an empty circle.

“Where did the other go?” Dean frowns, troubled. “What happened to them?”

“They disappeared,” Castiel says, simply. “Over two and a half centuries ago. We don’t know where. But Abra must have had work for them, or else she would not have sent them from their home.”

“And only one came back?” Dean asks. “After how long?”

“Less than a century. Whether it was Aovae, the first Great Angel, or Ziarre, the servant she fell in love with, who fell down to earth and has not yet returned, we cannot say.”

Dean’s head hurts. He lifts his head higher and gapes up at the black above their heads.

“That’s…” His voice grates against his throat. “They must miss each other…”

Silence for a moment. Then,

“I’m sure they do…”

Now the flames dancing at their sides seem to move with sadness. The lights from the city glow more dimly, Dean can see less clearly, the air has grown still.

Then it moves again.

“I think Michael has been lying to me about Lucifer.”

Dean looks back up to Castiel, taken aback by this sudden, unprompted confession from his betrothed.

“Oh,” He replies. Is Castiel only just coming to this conclusion? If Michael is not comfortable with telling his younger brother the whole truth on any matters of his past, why should he be comfortable telling _any_ of it?

Dean makes this point to the Angel, but Castiel hardly seems to notice.

“I think Lucifer is still alive. I think he is at the front of the Demon War; I think he wants to regain his throne in Evadne. I think Michael knows this, and that was why he was so afraid to enter in the war, to begin with.”

Dean sits up, and has, whether deliberately or not, shuffled away from Castiel as the Angel speaks.

Images of red and black figures, and flashes of steel and iron, and a burning sun beating down upon him, and being totally encased in metal, reel angrily through Dean’s mind.

He swallows hard, frowning, and looks away. His heart has quickened in its pace.

“Right…” He murmurs. “And why do you think that?”

Castiel sighs and shakes his head.

“I cannot say,” He admits. “Only that Michael could never kill one of us… I don’t think. And certainly not his twin. Not for anything in the world. They say he and Lucifer were inseparable. Nothing in the heavens could separate them.”

Nothing in the heavens.

Dean thinks of how this rings true with he and his brother, also. Nothing in all the Earthly Kingdoms could separate them. He hopes that this is the case with him and Castiel, also.

Nothing in the heavens.

 

…

 

On the twenty-first day of Castiel’s stay, in the Main Hall, adorned with the Heran colours of love: red and gold, Dean and Castiel exchange their ‘Ensignets of Betrothal’: the things that, traditionally, will set them apart as promised to one another, and to each other only.

Dean’s father is Heran, but his mother as from Eofor. The traditions of Eofor would dictate that Dean gave to Castiel a ring to wear, just as John gave to Mary in honour of her heritage. This is the ring that Dean wears on _his_ finger, in remembrance of his mother—but it is not the ring he will be giving to Castiel.

Instead, in Hera, two metal bands are given, both of a different metal. And to show off the Winchester House’s wealth, John has had one of these made in silver, studded with jade, and one in gold, with fine carvings and engravings of spidery trees across its surface so that it appears so intricate and fine and delicate that Dean nearly gets a headache by looking at it.

Presenting these to Castiel is downright mortifying: the entirety of the Heran nobility seems to be present, all the Angels who came down with Castiel, the royalty from all the Earthly Kingdoms, even Dione. The whole hall is wreathed with vines and adorned with blossoms, early evening sunlight pours through the windows and splashes everything even more multicolour.

An Angel with long, dark hair—so black that it is almost blue—and dusky, orange-violet wings plays a strange, harp-like instrument that is about the size of a child of two years, with a distant, wistful look in his eye that Castiel explains is very much put-on. Another Angel sings: she has dark skin that shimmers nearly purple by the plashes of blue and red light brought on by the stained-glass reflected across her skin. Her robes are long and sheer, layers upon layers of them, that glitter and spark, as though ready to ignite in the firelight of the torches set up across the hall.

“She’s a Tyrzan,” Castiel explains, when both of them are sat down. “So is he.”

“She sings beautifully,” Dean says, softly.

“They all do,” Castiel hums, a ghost of a smile flashing at his features for a moment. Then, “they say my mother was a beautiful singer, also. That she sang to me every night that she carried me.” He looks down, rubs at his arms distractedly. “She was a Tyrzan, also.”

“Oh,” Dean replies, throat tight. It’s rare that Cas will mention his mother, especially like this. “She looked like them?” He asks, gesturing to the pair singing.

Castiel shrugs.

“She had dark hair, like mine. Dark skin. Mine is not so dark. She had ringlets.” A pressing silence, filled with chatter amongst the crowd, and the music played by the two Angels. “Her statue is in our Halls of the Dreaming, next to my father’s. I do not like to go there, and have only seen her a few times. But she was… Very beautiful, even if the carving of her was flattering. She would be beautiful if she were half as radiant as that rendering.”

Dean stares at Castiel, who stares at the dark, ruddy wood of the table. Cas doesn’t look back up at him, so Dean turns back out to the musicians, who sing in a language unknown to him.

“Cas?” Dean asks. Castiel glances reluctantly back up at Dean and raises his eyebrows. “They’re—” He gestures to the musicians. “—Is that Enochian, they’re singing in?”

Castiel’s lips are tugged a moment, out of their melancholic position.

“Of a sort,” He nods. “An Old Enochian dialect, of the Kings and Queens of Old. Perhaps even the first Queen.”

“How can you tell?”

“It is a love song.”

“Oh,” Dean’s throat tightens unexpectedly. He looks out across the Hall again. Many of the Heran men regard the singing She-Angel with hungry, dark eyes, though they have no idea of the meaning of the words that form on her lips. “What is she saying?”

Castiel traces the tip of his knife across the table surface.

 _“Near or far, I am always yours,”_ He starts, not looking at Dean. “It’s… difficult to translate. Michael sang me this song, when I was a boy. As did my father before him.” The melody changes, and a new song begins. “ _Behold, you are beautiful, Beloved,”_ Castiel translates. _“Behold, you are beautiful.”_

“And… Aovae wrote that?”

“So they say.”

Dean wants to say something, to press at Castiel’s silence, but the time has come for he and Castiel to present their signets of betrothal to one another; and so Dean slips the two bands onto Castiel’s wrist in front of the entire assembly—to rapturous applause and a sea of beaming faces and not an ounce of privacy—and Castiel presents his to Dean.

And honestly, it seems to outstrip Dean’s gift by thousands of leagues.

A simple cord necklace, like the one Sammy gave to Dean years ago, but this one with a stone at the end of it. The most beautiful, changing, shimmering stone that Dean has ever set his eyes upon—and he has lived in the King’s Court all his life.

“This,” Castiel gestures to one side of it, “We call **_Asmata,_** because it is like the starlight. This,” He turns it to its other side, “we call **_Bawraq,_** because it is like the lightning.” For the first time in what feels like an age, Castiel looks up at Dean as he speaks, bright blue eyes flashing with something unknown. “It comes from the heart of Evadne, in our sacred caves, and it is sacred and I—chose it for you. The two stones are forged together naturally—starlight and lightning. It is said to be… Well, it’s difficult to explain.” He smiles, and breathless, Dean does the same.

“They’re—it’s—beautiful, Castiel,” Dean manages. Castiel’s gaze softens. The hall is silent. Dean can see heaven.

After the feast, Castiel takes Dean out to the courtyard, and sits there, staring up at the sky. Dean joins him, and they stay in silence for a good deal of time.

Finally, the Angel turns to Dean, expression strange and mystically unreadable, looking at Dean in a way that makes Dean’s insides churn.

“What is it?” Dean asks, breaking the quiet that has fallen between them in the increasing darkness.

“I was just thinking.” Cas smiles.

“What about?”

“I was so alone before we met.”

Dean doesn’t understand.

“I think I was lost.” Castiel hums. “When we first met, I think I was lost. And I think you found me.”

“You thought I was an ass, when we first spoke.” Dean laughs.

“That’s not true, at all.” Castiel frowns, shaking his head. “I thought you were clumsy and awkward and wonderful when I first met you.”

Dean frowns.

“In a good way.” Cas adds. “It was—I don’t know—endearing. And I expected you to be somewhat spoilt and conceited, but seeing you trip over your own feet destroyed that particular anxiety.”

“…I don’t know if any of that is a compliment, or if the whole thing is just meant to be insulting.”

“It’s certainly not meant as an insult.” Castiel frowns. “It’s just what I thought of you when we first met.”

“But you definitely thought I was an idiot at some point, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Castiel admits, his tone guilty. “But only after our fight. And I expect you thought _I_ was an idiot, too.”

“No.” Dean smiles. “As soon as you stormed off, I felt really guilty. And I started thinking about how _I’d_ been in the wrong.”

“Really?” Castiel asks. His lips quirk upwards.

“Yeah.” Dean laughs. “And when I first saw you, I just couldn’t get over how fucking _beautiful_ you were. I was terrified out of being able to speak.”

“It was very endearing.” Castiel repeats, the small smile still playing across his lips.

“And you’re really fucking patronising.” Dean laughs, having to look away from Castiel and up at the trembling sky. “What changed your mind about me being an asshole?”

“It was at that first feast.” Cas says thoughtfully. “When you apologised—a lot—and when we started talking again. I felt frustratingly at ease around you.”

“Really? I was seriously nervous, then.”

“Why is that?” Castiel frowns.

“I wanted you to like me.” Dean laughs, replying honestly. “And I thought I’d fucked that up.”

“You definitely hadn’t.” Castiel smiles. “And I _really_ like you, now. Which is something of an understatement, but there you go.”

“I really like you, too.” Dean replies, his voice grazing his throat.

And Cas is giving him that look, again. The one that makes him come up a little short for air.

“Are you happy about all of this, Dean?” Cas asks, looking suddenly concerned and intensely curious.

“Am I happy about all of what?”

“Our betrothal. Us, being… well, you know the rest.”

“Us getting married, some day?” Dean asks, without thinking; and it’s the first time either of them have said it, out loud. The first time they’ve acknowledged what becoming engaged actually _means._ It changes something in the air, between them—something shifts; and Dean can’t tell if it’s been moved into place, or out of it, but in any case it trembles so much it could be shimmering with nerves.

Dean’s fingers drift up, almost unconsciously, to the second cord around his neck: the one that Castiel gave to him only hours ago. He plays with the rope a moment, thumbing at it, fingers moving deftly down to the stone bead at its centre, running the pads of his thumb and forefinger over its smooth, faceted surface.

“Yes.” Castiel nods. “That’s what I mean.”

Something has slid across the surface of his eyes, eclipsing them.

Dean looks down.

“I’m—It’s hard to say—”

“—Because you said that you were happy that it was me who you had been promised to—but I had always just assumed that you meant out of any Angel you were _forced_ into being married to; you would most prefer it to be me.”

“That’s not—”

“And I know that your situation is not a desirable one from a Human perspective, Dean; although from that of an Angel it was only to be anticipated—”

“—But I’m not angry about any of this, any more.” Dean interrupts. “I haven’t been, for years. And I—I’ve always had a tough time saying how I feel—you know that… But… if I could’ve chosen anyone— _anyone—_ to y’know… Do this properly with—and by that I mean actually spend _years_ getting to know each other, and _like_ each other—” Dean can’t say love. He can’t say love, and he won’t. “Before one of us asks the other to marry them—if I could’ve chosen anyone to do that with, Human or otherwise, it would’ve been you, Cas. When I ask myself that question, the answer is always you. And when I picture myself happy… It’s with you. It’s always with you.”

He looks back up into Cas’s eyes to see something flickering brightly in them. It makes him swallow hard, and something tightly knotted in his chest comes undone.

And Castiel kisses him, hard and soft. Dean comes up short of air.

When the two of them tread softly back into Dean’s room, Cas closes the door behind him with a hungry look in his eye; and Dean barely has the time to frown questioningly at the Angel before he is crashed into, Cas’s lips bruising Dean’s, and Dean is thrown down onto his own bed.

It feels good, all of it, as though floodgates that Castiel had previously been keeping tightly shut, that Dean didn’t even _know_ about, have been flung suddenly open. Cas kisses Dean like he’s hungry for something, pinning Dean back against the bed, cradling Dean’s head close, kissing fervently up and down the expanse of Dean bare neck, tongue slipping under Dean’s engagement necklace, and _fuck,_ it feels good. All of it feels good.

“Cas—” Dean gasps, but the Angel growls against his mouth and presses his body, flush, against Dean’s, as though Dean’s voice sets the Angel’s skin into crawling with want. “Cas—” Dean’s speech is cut off by his own groan as Castiel grinds his hips against Dean’s. It’s heaven—it’s heaven in a purer and sincerer way than Dean could have ever imagined, than he could have imagined even when begging Castiel to fuck him all those nights ago.

What did their conversation in the courtyard mean? Did it mean _this?_

“That felt—” Cas gasps against Dean’s mouth, after grinding his hips into Dean’s, nearly rutting up against him. “—That felt _really_ good.”

“Yeah—” Dean nods, assenting and feeling altogether a little too short of breath. “…It did,” He agrees. Then, in a tone that seems immature and downright wanton, “Do it again.”

Castiel does, and he groans, his mouth trembling against Dean’s.

Dean can feel his skin burning; and he knows that if Cas continues his— _grinding—_ for want of a better word—if Dean is not already completely hard, he will be very soon.

But then a thought enters his head that cuts the moan he makes into Castiel’s mouth painfully short.

This is _Cas—_ Cas who for all Dean knows, doesn’t understand _anything_ about what they’re doing—what they might _go on_ to do if they carry on kissing and grinding up against one another. And although Dean wants to do it— _fuck,_ he wants to—he can’t let them continue without making sure Cas _knows._

“Wait—” Dean gasps, though it’s hard to think coherently. Cas’s hands are slipping under his shirt, and his thumbs graze at the bare skin of his torso deliberately, which trembles like earth that has been freshly struck by lightning. “—Cas,” He tries again, his breathing rugged,

“Hm?” Castiel hums, as he mouths down Dean’s neck, and Dean can’t help but whine beneath him.

“—Do you—do you know what you’re doing?” Dean winces, because this question makes either little or no sense whatsoever; and Cas seems to think so, too. The Angel looks up with a frown woven across his face as he regards Dean.

“What do you mean?” He asks, tilting his head to the side—and the innocence of the action makes Dean think that he was _right;_ that Cas _was_ just following his instincts and  that he really does have no idea what any of what they’re doing actually is.

“You know—when you—you get what it looks like we’re about to do, right?”

“Yes,” Castiel frowns. “And I wasn’t aware that you actually _meant_ that insult about me being too innocent to understand such things, on the first night of my stay. I know what sex is, Dean.”

Dean’s face heats to temperatures hotter than the sun.

“—I didn’t—I was just making sure that—”

“—That you wouldn’t be taking advantage of me.” Castiel finishes. Dean looks up and sees that Angel’s eyes are smiling softly, a quiet triumph shimmering behind them.

“Yes,” Dean nods. He can feel his face reddening.

“Thank you for your concern, Dean, but you needn’t worry. You’re not taking advantage.” He presses his forehead up against Dean’s. “Not at all.”

“Right. Good.” Dean has to look down, because _fuck,_ this is awkward, and it’s nothing like Dean had imagined their first time doing, well, _this,_ would be.

But then Cas starts kissing down Dean’s neck again, and Dean swallows hard. Castiel’s eyes flick up darkly to his Adam’s apple and its movements; before he looks back up at Dean, eyes intense with possessiveness.

“Do that again.” His voice is soft but oddly dangerous, and it sends that burning heat all over Dean’s skin to listen to.

“—What—”

“Swallow,” Castiel instructs, his voice barely above a growl. Dean does so, and Cas makes an approving noise rather a lot like a groan before sealing his mouth to the spot and sucking hard. Dean whimpers at the sensation, at the burning pleasure of Cas’s mouth on his skin, but before he is able to soak up the feeling and moan again; Cas is kissing at the space of skin left uncovered by Dean’s shirt, before tugging Dean up and pulling the item off of Dean’s body completely.

Dean can barely breathe; something is thrumming inside of him and it prickles at his skin and burns his insides. It’s painful and addictive and a hazy fog is filling Dean’s mind. Cas kisses down his shoulder, and Dean tilts his head back and closes his eyes—everything is blurry and he can barely think straight—and then the Angel presses his lips to Dean’s stomach, before dragging his mouth over to Dean’s hipbones and drawing his teeth over the skin there. Dean bites his lip and whines again, and Castiel glances up at him, pushing him back against the bed, before pulling off the last of Dean’s clothing.

Dean almost blushes at how painfully hard his dick is—how it bobs up, aching to be touched, but Cas kisses its head and mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like;

_“Beautiful.”_

And Dean is barely given time to think, or blush at Cas’s comment, before Cas is dragging his teeth up Dean’s shaft—he lets out a cry of pleasure, and Cas looks up at him and inclines his head to the side.

“Interesting,” He hums, something like a smile playing across his lips, and he repeats the action; earning him another moan, and now there’s _definitely_ a smug smile twitching across the Angel’s face as he glances back up at Dean. “That’s very interesting.”

Dean thinks Cas is getting off on discovering his kinks; and his theory is only further proven when Cas actually _asks_ what it is Dean wants him to do.

“I want you to suck my cock, Cas,” Dean groans, but Cas’s hands squeeze, almost too hard, at Dean’s thighs.

“Yes? And what else?”

“What do you mean, what else?”

Cas grazes his teeth against Dean again instead of answering.

“Um—” Dean’s voice is cracking in his throat. Cas makes an impatient sort of noise, but Dean can barely think. What gets him off, when he’s thinking about Cas, during those few times when he can actually get some _relief?_ What _really_ gets him off?

“You could—you could hold my hips down—” Dean suggests; and Castiel gives him a moderately confused, though amused, look.

“Like this?” Cas asks, pressing Dean back against the bed, his hands almost bruising on Dean’s sides.

“Yeah, like that,” Dean’s answer is caught somewhere between a sigh and a moan. “Just like that,” He repeats, his head tipping back against the bed. Lights dance behind his eyes, his body shakes like the sky before a storm.

“What else?”

“Uh—” Another squeeze accompanies Dean’s slowness to reply. Apparently Cas doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Dean makes a note of it for future reference, but another pinch at his sides reminds him to actually _answer_ the Angel _._ “You could let me touch your wings—I mean, hold them—Can I? Can I—”

Cas smiles and raises both his wings to be in easier reach of Dean; unfolding them slightly. And Dean’s hands don’t falter before they find each wing, his fingers sliding between the feathers and holding, tight, as Castiel finally takes Dean inside his mouth, lips slipping over Dean’s head obscenely and taking him deep, deep inside of Castiel’s mouth.

The world goes a little white. Dean’s never done this before—or, rather, he’s never had someone _do_ it to him, before—and it burns him with pleasure.

“Fuck—” He mutters as Cas continues to hold him down; his cheeks hollowing out, his tongue swirling round Dean’s head. “Oh— _fuck_ —Cas—”

Something feels as though it is pouring out of him—or is it filling him?—at Castiel’s touches; somehow burning with purity and with sin. What is this that Dean is feeling? What would the Angels say of this kind of union if they knew anything about it?

Dean isn’t given the time to pursue this answer, as all thoughts, bar those of the pleasure rushing through the nerves of his body and filling every fibre, before pouring out of him, are ripped from his head. Only pleasure, that flaming, smoking sense of _good, good, good,_ and thoughts of Cas, _Castiel,_ his touches and the holiness of them, the Holiness of all of them and all of Cas, and his bright brilliance, are what Dean can think about.

He holds on tightly to each feather on Castiel’s wings; his knuckles turning white. He’s probably hurting the Angel, considering how sensitive Dean has observed Cas’s wings to be in the past, but to Castiel’s credit; he doesn’t make any sounds of complaint, only continues licking and sucking and touching and Dean can hardly lift his head to look upon the Angel doing this to him.

He only hums approvingly around Dean, which feels fucking _breathtaking;_ the sound reverberating all over Dean, and Dean’s hips twitch upwards, only to have Cas almost _slam_ them back down onto the bed, and _fuck, fuck_ that’s good, and Dean thinks he says as much, it only serves to wind Dean up more and make him all the more desperate for relief, but he can barely hear anything, let alone make out the sound of his own voice. His world is filling with a buzzing white; Cas is still humming around Dean—Dean thinks Cas _knows_ how much he likes it—how much he likes _all_ of this—Cas’s tongue winding its way around Dean, the Angel’s head bobbing up and down—and Dean is coming, he’s coming down Cas’s throat, and he tries to issue some kind of warning but he can’t; because all the air is sucked out of his lungs as the buzzing white is filling his senses, and all he can think is _yes, good, that feels good; so good,_ and he realises that he’s speaking out loud again.

He gasps for air as Castiel removes his mouth from Dean with an obscene popping sound. He licks up the length of Dean, keeping his eyes trained on Dean’s, and Dean moans again, unable to contain it. Cas starts kissing at Dean’s dick and running his tongue over it again, which has Dean whimpering; everything feels so sensitive and raw and the world is buzzing; he can hardly work out what’s going on but it all feels so _good._

The Angel moves back up to Dean’s mouth, kissing him slowly—his mouth tastes strange, now; and Dean guesses that this is what his own come tastes of, and it’s strangely arousing to be able to taste himself on Cas’s tongue.

Cas moans against his mouth, and Dean frowns, glancing down to see Cas pumping at his own dick.

“Do you want me to—” He starts, but Castiel shakes his head, brushing his nose against Dean’s.

“Turn over.” He mumbles gently against Dean’s ear; and Dean swallows thickly before complying. “Good.” Castiel hums, and Dean’s skin prickles with the huskiness of Cas’s voice.

He feels the Angel kiss at his shoulders, and into the curve of Dean’s neck; then across his shoulder blades to the space between them and his spine—and then he doesn’t move away from this place. He mouths at the spot, groaning against it; and then it hits Dean—as much as Cas’s wings are a turn on for him; Dean’s lack thereof are to the same effect, for Castiel.

But then surprise tears through him; splintering into this thoughts and sweeping them to the side—because Castiel starts kissing—he starts kissing at Dean’s skin, the scarred, mottled flesh of Dean’s back and shoulders; the marks of his failings. And Dean lifts his head up, he thinks to object, to say that he doesn’t deserve this; any of this, but Cas kisses again and again; mouthing against Dean’s etched imperfections and weaknesses, and he mumbles words in Enochian—the same one, in particular—over and over, and then Dean feels Cas come on the small of his back, and Cas mumbles Dean’s name—but it sounds more as though it is said in his own tongue, in Enochian, and Dean’s head feels giddy, again.

He feels Cas smear the evidence of his orgasm against Dean’s skin; rubbing it in, and Dean should probably be tempted to become annoyed—but it feels an awful lot like Cas marking him, _claiming_ him, and Dean likes that thought more than he’d care to admit.

Cas presses one last kiss to his back; muttering the word in Enochian against Dean’s skin once more, before rolling Dean over again gently. Dean smiles when his eyes meet Castiel’s. He feels his eyes crinkle at their corners. The world is glowing.

He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what, so he just pulls Cas down to kiss him again. He feels Castiel laugh against his mouth.

“What did you say?” He asks, pulling back from Castiel’s lips. “Just then—in Enochian—what were you saying?”

He doesn’t think Cas is going to answer him, for a moment. But then the Angel’s eyes spark with a soft warmth; and although they still leave Dean raw as they shatter through him, they burn him hot and cold, and he feels something warm and calm curl around his heart.

“Beautiful.” Cas smiles. “I said I thought you were beautiful.”

Dean kisses Castiel again. He thinks he sees the stars.

Cas moves to tangle his legs with Dean’s and folds his wing softly over Dean’s body. He smiles at Dean, not so much with his lips but certainly with his eyes, which crinkle up at their corners and seem to hold the secrets to the ground beneath their feet. Castiel’s fingers move to play nimbly, though slowly, with the stone hanging from Dean’s neck.

Something warm settles in Dean’s chest and sits there, glowing. He can feel Cas’s come drying on his back; which will be a bitch to clean up in the morning, but he doesn’t care right now. It’s marking him as _Cas’s—_ as something special and important and _only_ Castiel’s; no one else’s. And Dean likes that thought. Loves it. A calm sleepiness is settling over Dean. Everything is perfect. He smiles at Castiel. His eyes crinkle at their corners once more. Castiel smiles back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all, for your reading and your patience, and for all the lovely, encouraging comments given so far. If you have any feedback, I'd love to hear it. Thanks for reading!


	14. Fire and Salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super super sorry this was so delayed! Next chapter will be from outsider perspectives (Michael, Gabriel, etc., flashbacks from them and so on,) and the one after that will be from Dean's. The story is picking up pace, I hope you can feel it! A lot of important stuff is also covered in this chapter, but I won't tell you what it is ;) Thanks for your patience!

 

> **“… the hunter’s heart,**
> 
> **the hunter’s mouth, the trees and the trees and the**
> 
> **space between the trees, swimming in gold.”**
> 
> **RICHARD SIKEN, EXCERPT FROM “SNOW AND DIRTY RAIN”**

Dimming evening light and an air that is heavy and sweet with blossoms and late spring. Dean’s chest and drawing, drawing spiralled patterns on it. Dean’s hands in Castiel’s hair. They thread through like minnows, weaving in and out of dark tufts like Castiel is made of water. He hardly breathes at all, but when he does it is low, low and rich, filling him out to the ends of his limbs with the taste of fruit and wine.

He can feel God in the air, in the air between them, and in the lack thereof, where skin meets skin and Castiel cannot know—nor want to know—where he ends and Dean begins.

Dean’s seed cools on the sheets. Castiel can taste his own in the Human’s mouth, and every now and then will lean up, dip in, to taste it, savour it, swallow it. Dean’s moans grow quieter and more trembling, the Human grows hard beneath Castiel once again.

Upon request as often as it is not, Castiel will mumble words in Enochian to the beautiful form beneath his body, spattered with freckles, pale shoulders, tanned arms, threads of gold through light brown hair, flakes of sunlight in bright green eyes. The space around them trembles with innocence, purity; burns with it, despite what they have just been doing, what they promise they will continue to do in the secretive darkness with every moment the other grows harder and the scent of his lust fills the air.

Castiel could confess it all now: how he loves Dean and longs for him, longs for him in every fathomable way, like a brother and a friend, like a lover and a soulmate. His hand cups Dean’s jaw, the adolescent stubble chafes his palms, he kisses the ridge of Dean’s cheek and lets his heart burn brightly as Dean nuzzles back.

Yes, love—he feels it more clearly now than he ever has before, now he knows what to name it and what form it should take on his tongue, knows it because he knows Dean’s scars in small, merging maps and his smile and the crease of his lips, knows his laugh and when it is at its most sincere, knows the lines around his eyes and the soft brown of his eyelashes. His fingertips, the veins on his hands, how Dean’s voice chokes him, soothes him, softens him, fills him. Dean: Castiel’s beloved. Dearly beloved.

The movement starts again: two bodies rubbing up against each other until both reach completion, fulfilment, in one another’s arms with moans and sighs and sweeping, gentle feelings of delight. Dean begins to giggle and kisses at Castiel’s cheeks and hairline. Adoration washes at the Angel’s insides.

“Think,” Dean beams beneath him, “that when we’re married, this is how we will spend _all_ our time.”

Castiel chuckles, but shakes his head affectionately.

“Not _all_ our time, I’m sure, Dean.”

Dean’s lips curve into a different smile and he pushes Castiel off him, onto his side.

“I can’t think of anything else worth doing,” The human retorts, obviously only half-joking.

Castiel kisses the tip of Dean’s nose in response.

He and Dean have ventured no further than this: kissing and rutting against each other, maybe using their mouths to pleasure the other, or hands—but nothing more, though Dean has hinted that he should like to go further, do more, _feel_ more as a result.

There is something hungry in his eyes, every night, that does not get satisfied—and Castiel will not satisfy him, not yet.

Dean’s hands trail up and down Castiel’s torso. Castiel hums and shifts his wing over silver-gray, silken sheets toward the Human, who chuckles simply, catching the hint, and turns his attention towards each of Castiel’s feathers, playing with them gently. Perhaps Castiel is fooling himself—but is there love at the end of those fingertips?

It is these thoughts, of course, that make it difficult for him not to be overcome with the urge to fuck Dean deep into his bedding, to make slow and gentle love to him, to slick him up with sweet smelling oils and slide in and out until all Dean knows is Castiel’s name upon his tongue and the Angel’s heat inside of him.

Castiel presses a hand onto Dean’s cheek to distract himself from these thoughts.

Dean gazes earnestly back at him.

“I adore you.”

The Angel chuckles, chest growing warmer by the minute, and sighs happily, by way of bleeding out some of the overflowing sensation of want and need from him.

“And I, you.”

Dean nearly giggles at the Angel’s words. The noise is bright and yellow as candlelight in the growing darkness of the room. Noise from the streets below clamours up to Dean’s balcony and through his window, but it is muffled and what is most clear amongst all the purrings and hummings muted by distance is _music,_ made sweeter than any Castiel has heard before by his circumstance—lying intimately naked in bed with Dean.

The strum of lyre, velvet words of performing men, twinkling notes of singing women, dims Castiel’s gaze and brings a fragrant lethargy to his thoughts, which pour through his mind slower and slower, until they are eventually nothing but a trickle of consciousness.

Dean’s eyes droop with every moment; he blinks slowly, his eyes stay shut for longer and longer. But Castiel’s thoughts continue steadily.

Dean is ignorant of many of the ways of Angels, and still more of their physical, mystic attributes. So he is of course blissfully unaware of sex, and what it means—and what it would mean for him, if Castiel were ever to do more than pleasure Dean with his tongue, but bend the Human over and bury himself inside Dean’s frame.

How could Dean know? And when should Castiel tell him? It will, undoubtedly, change the Human’s mind if Castiel ever did; Castiel can only imagine how terrifying and alien a thought is must be to any who have not been familiar with it in some form, regardless of how innocent, for nearly all their days, or do not understand it in a base, primal way—with the same instinctiveness that Castiel knows to suck at the particularly delicate, soft patches of Dean’s skin, so as to make the Human arc deliciously towards his touch.

Two bodies becoming one is simple, Castiel thinks, mind growing foggier by the moment with the need to sleep—but two _souls?_ Well, that is something else altogether. It is little wonder that it should scare Dean, as it does Castiel.

Already he can feel his soul singing to Dean’s; feel, but not see it. How much would change if he gave into the burning of his want, and let himself be wrapped in the white-hot of Dean’s body? How much _more_ would he feel for the Human?

Sleep. Sleep drifts over him, and by morning, Castiel has all but forgotten of his worries.

 

 

…

 

 

“And then we crushed the uprisings, and the glass hills became ours. The Yn Codi—the hills closest to us fell first, then Guer Tuath—the northernmost hills and mountains, then Uaine Faiche, which is west. And since then, all of the hill tribes and hill countries have been Hera’s, indisputably, and though the risings still happen, on occasion, all the Lords and Chiefs bow the knee to my father,” Dean finishes proudly. “That was—well, a hundred years ago. My great grandfather.”

“I see,” Castiel nods distractedly, troubled, not for the first time, by Humanity’s—and in particular, Hera’s—continued love for destruction.

“He nearly wasn’t crowned,” Dean continues, thrashing through a clump of nettles with a long, thick stick he uses as a makeshift staff. He looks more childish and carefree now than he has since Castiel met him, as they walk alone through the unexplored patches of the forest, cutting and beating their way through undergrowth, talking of myths and legends and histories, and all of those stories that manage to lie somewhere inbetween.

“Why’s that?” Castiel inquires. They left the beaten paths of the forest nearly an hour ago, and now, soft turf beneath them muffles his footsteps to only vague rustling sounds and the crumple of dead leaves.

“He was the younger of two brothers,” Dean shrugs, then wrinkles his nose in concentration. “I can’t remember the story, but…” Dean laughs a moment, the creases in his face disappearing in an instant. “My tutor would love this,” He informs Castiel matter-of-factly. “Me forgetting my own history. Anyway, they fought, or something, and he won. I’m not sure why or how. Do Angels fight over the throne, often?”

Castiel titters gently. Angels live so long that it is rare that the _chance_ for a dispute over who should rule will crop up—but when it does, all Castiel’s knowledge of his people’s history seems to point to the conflict being cosmic.

“Not often.”

“That’s good,” Dean hums. He snaps the ends of a dead branch in his path. “I think it’s foolish. I don’t even want to be king, anyway: Sammy could have my crown in a heartbeat, and I wouldn’t care. I’ve seen what power does to us, and it isn’t noble.”

The Human pauses to peer at Castiel sheepishly a moment, as though to gauge his reaction. Castiel can only hum in vague agreement.

“Yes,” He nods thoughtfully, “I fear, perhaps, you’re right.”

“I would be an explorer, if I were not a prince,” Dean states, decisively. “I wouldn’t have the memories of war to sour my experience of sailing: there’d be no memories of long voyages over to an unknown land with men I knew were going to die when we got there…” Dean trails off, troubled, and Castiel wonders if the prince knows all _that much_ about exploring, after all. But, in any case, the slight naïve ignorance of Dean’s thinking is endearing, if nothing else.

“It would be,” Dean sighs a moment, pausing, and the ghost of a wistful smile glances at his features. “Beautiful,” He decides. “Dawn, every morning, across a perfectly still sea. That’s what I would wake up to. And then a new land—can you imagine? A new country, one entirely perfect and pure and new?”

Castiel imagines that everywhere Humans can sail, there will be disease and famine and plague and heartbreak. But he doesn’t say this.

“That sounds beautiful, Dean.”

“Doesn’t it?” Dean is beaming, now. “And I would fight for the right reasons—not for revenge or… or for my father’s approval; but for good, and kindness and for the cause of the downtrodden—and it would be _so_ glorious.”

“It certainly sounds it,” Castiel agrees, nodding, disguising his cynicism as thoughtful imaginings of Dean’s possible adventures across the sea. “Where would you go?”

Dean has his answer ready. His smile grows old and wide as the sun.

“West,” He answers. “I would sail west. All we know are the islands nearest to us, and they are Hera’s. But beyond those—well, what? Mists so heavy they say the sea is cursed, there, and have never dared to sail through it. They say there are ghosts, that their wails can be heard over the waters. Long songs that turn into choruses as if all the ghosts in the world are crying together. They say there are monsters. They say there are _dragons.”_

Castiel is nearly as enchanted by Dean’s words as he is.

“That’s… quite wonderful,” He admits.

“And in all our history,” Dean laughs, shaking his head as though in disbelief, “we have not sailed there. How cowardly. All from fear. But what do we have to fear? Nothing, because we know nothing of what is there.”

So, it would be more appropriate to fear _everything_ that could be there, Castiel thinks to himself, if they indeed know nothing of it.

“What do the Angels think of the Western Shores?” Dean looks up to Castiel to ask. His eyes glimmer faintly with blazing curiosity.

Castiel shrugs.

“We don’t know,” He admits. “We have not explored there, either, as far as I know.”

“That can’t be true,” Dean frowns.

“I’m telling you what I know,” Castiel informs. “I wouldn’t lie, and Angel history says nothing about it, which you would expect it to, if they are such an exciting mystery, after all.”

“So you think there’s nothing there?”

“There must be _something,”_ Castiel reasons. “But… It’s probably not haunted. I don’t know. Stories shroud the truth. And there would be only one way of determining it for certain.”

Dean smiles reluctantly.

“And that’s why I wanted to explore those seas.”

“You still could,” Castiel contends. “As the King, you would have the right to set sail and make voyages wherever you liked.”

Dean pulls a face, half-hearted.

“I suppose,” He admits, “though it wouldn’t be nearly the same.”

Castiel resists the demanding urge to chuckle.

“I’m sorry that you think so.”

Dean pulls a self-deprecating face.

“I’m being tenacious,” He admits, “and it’s all well and easy for a _prince_ to complain about his burden, as though he is so very wise and enlightened, and his subjects can’t possibly imagine the strain of living in a _palace_ , of all places. But, I don’t think this life was meant for me. Hera is a brutish kingdom, I think. You must have noticed that? I’m not sure that I could rule it. I’m not a King: I’m a brother, I’m a friend. That’s what I’m best suited to.” He smirks at himself, and seems to become at least ten years his senior with wisdom. “I ought to have been a stable hand. _Then_ my talents would be utilised properly.”

Castiel laughs, and so does Dean.

“Perhaps you’re right,” The Angel concedes.

“I’m surprised that the Angels have never thought to explore the seas in the west,” Dean comments.

Castiel smiles wryly and shrugs. They trudge further through the forest, and the trees seem to become more spidery, their branches more intent upon reaching the sky.

“Perhaps many have; they simply haven’t returned to tell the tale. Or perhaps there is nothing of consequence there, and they returned home, and none of it was recorded.”

Dean frowns pensively, unconvinced.

“That doesn’t seem satisfying,” He replies. Castiel has to stifle his blossoming affection at the Human’s words.

“And the truth is always satisfying, is it?” He asks with a droll smirk.

Dean rolls his eyes and makes a grumbling noise.

“All I’m saying is,” He answers, “I just think it’s kind of strange that Angels haven’t gone there. I mean, you guys can fly, right? And that makes travel way easier?”

“It is easy to attack Angels in flight,” Castiel answers. “We can sense another’s presence, when they are up in the air, and what direction they are heading in, and how fast they are going, and often even their intentions. It’s a risk, Michael says, and not one often taken at war, unless by a very powerful Angel, who can, as it were, smother their thoughts and make their presence less obvious. But it’s as though a candle has been lit in a dark, cold room: we can all feel it, all see it, when an Angel is in flight.”

“So?”

“So, perhaps Angels have never flown west, because _when_ they had thought to, they were at war, or risk of attack, and it was deemed too much of a liability. Also, flight is not nearly so simple as you think: you need to know where you’re going, more often than not—flying aimlessly is hardly advised—it would be like you walking through a pirate town in gold clothing—and an alien pirate town, at that. Stupid. Inviting attack. And without knowledge of your destination, flight would lack direction.” He sighs. “It’s complicated, I worry I’m not explaining it nearly well enough, and half of this is only speculative, anyway. But there you go.”

“So, it’s like—you can hear each other’s thoughts, right?”

Castiel inclines his head, puzzled.

“I mean—this isn’t related,” Dean clarifies, “but you can hear Angel thoughts, can’t you?”

“Once an Angel is fully matured, yes,” Castiel answers, “if they choose to look for another’s thoughts, they will be able to find them. Again, it’s…” He sighs, defeated by his inability to articulate his own kind’s powers to Dean. “Complicated.” And it is: he is so many worlds removed from Dean Winchester, and the concepts which are so familiar to Castiel that, like explaining the meaning of an abstract word, clarifying the nature of Angelkind to a Human seems nearly impossible. He endeavours, in any case, despite how alien all of this must seem to Dean.

“Perhaps I can explain it in relation to other things…” He frowns thoughtfully at the leafy, dark brown and green ground beneath his feet. “An Angel will gain _those_ kinds of abilities at twenty-one, if they choose to live an Angel life, which as you know, nearly all of us do. So I can’t hear or see another Angel’s thoughts—but if I were old enough, and I wanted to, it would be like knocking at a closed door: the owner of the thoughts would have to let me in. And it’s less us hearing thoughts, and more us—it’s like sitting at the walls of a room, watching the people inside it.”

“Oh,” Dean nods, wisps of confusion lacing this word. “So you… You have to ask permission, to see someone’s thoughts?”

“In a sort of way,” Castiel shrugs. “But, like a door, someone’s mind can be forced open, and an intruder can force their way in. There have been many cases of Angels doing this, especially to younger, inexperienced Angels. It’s outlawed, of course—to enter someone’s mind without consent is abominable, but… Criminality doesn’t deter _everyone.”_

“Of course,” Dean nods.

“And then,” Castiel continues, “instead of simply _observing_ another’s thoughts, an Angel—if they are powerful enough—can actually _interfere_ with someone’s mind, manipulate it, change it.”

“How?” Dean looks aghast.

“I don’t know,” Castiel shakes his head. “I’m not twenty-one, I can’t even _hear_ other Angels’ thoughts, let alone adjust them. But memories can be changed in particularly cruel cases, visions can be given in others, false memories shared—all sorts.”

“Is there any way of stopping it?” Dean asks, shocked. “Or knowing if it’s fake, if you’re being manipulated?”

Castiel notes that Dean’s feet fall heavier on the turf with worry as they continue to trail through the woods. Where is Dean taking him? Does Dean even know?

“Of course,” Castiel confirms. “And it’s not _too_ difficult, I suppose, if you know what to do and how to recognise when your mind is being invaded by another. But anyway, our ability to share thoughts with each other without speech or gesture isn’t _bad_ , it can just be abused. But we can share messages with one another, too, blaring them out across whole mountain ranges without voice, if needed: over oceans, deserts, we can communicate with one another without having to sit in each other’s minds. _That’s_ probably the gift’s most practical application. At least I think so.”

“So how would you know if someone was changing your mind?”

Castiel chuckles at Dean’s concerned expression.

“Don’t laugh, Cas,” Dean protests, “that’s _scary._ Don’t you think?”

“Well, yes,” Castiel admits, “it’s just… unlikely that it would ever happen to you.”

“I’m dealing with Angels with increasing frequency,” Dean points out. Castiel nods in concession to this point.

“True,” He acknowledges, “though I doubt that those Angels have any intentions of changing your thoughts. We’re allies, after all, and forcing one’s way into another’s mind, let alone manipulating it, is so _very_ contemptible.”

Dean hardly seems reassured, though he drops the subject.

“So how do you guys get your powers, then? When you turn twenty-one, I mean. How does that work?”

They are making their way deeper and deeper into the forest. Castiel can hear, dimly, like the twinkling of vague notes played from a long way off, the trickle of water, though he does not know where it is coming from.

He and Dean have swum in some of the rivers and streams that web their way through this forest, seeping past the roots of the trees and singing over pebbles and stones.

“You really _are_ in a mood for asking difficult questions, today, aren’t you?” Castiel asks with a chortle. Dean smiles, not sheepishly, though certainly not confidently, and leans towards Castiel to bump his shoulder.

“Just answer as best you can, I’ll forgive you even if you’re not clear.”

“That’s very kind of you,” The Angel hums. Dean’s gaze flits down to Castiel’s wings, trailing gently in the leaves at their feet, making muted rustling noises mellowed by the touch of his feathers and the weight of his muscles on the ground. The Human’s features soften considerably.

Castiel’s heart trips.

“I don’t know how it is that we are given our powers, tradition dictates that we aren’t told until the night before we are twenty-one. They say they are gifts of Abra, however, and so I’m sure it would seem… magical, supernatural—at least to you, if ever you saw it. But there are sacred caves beneath our mountains that the first Angels discovered: beautiful crystal tunnels and halls, and they say that Abra dwells most closely with us, there. Outside of our twenty-first birthdays, Angels are never allowed to go in the most sacred of these caves—unless we are **_Na el,_** that is, Holy Ones.”

“So you can only go in once?” Dean asks.

“Only once,” Castiel nods.

“And if you go in again? Or when you are not yet twenty-one?”

“You die,” Castiel says, simply. Dean seems disturbed. “Unless you are a Holy One.”

“Why?” Dean inquires. “And what is a Holy One?”

“Abra chooses them, we have nothing to do with it. She makes it clear who her chosen servants are, even if it is not clear to us why they should be so. But they are good—unusually so—and loyal and,” He huffs, “holy. Of course. Her dearest servants, Her closest friends.”

“But why do you die if you enter at the wrong time, or more than once?” Dean asks, still clearly troubled.

Castiel frowns, inclining his head again. Well, surely this ought to be self-explanatory?

“Because the caves are Abra’s dwelling place on earth,” He answers, gazing steadily at Dean. “The mountains around them are sacred; the caves within are _hallowed,_ even. We should not even enter with sandals on.”

“But _why?”_

“We gain our powers in those caves; they are powerful places. If _God_ lives there, then they must be. She is good, and beautiful, and pure—but She blazes like fire, like a Holy Fire—and where there is flame, there is the danger of getting burnt.”

Dean doesn’t seem satisfied.

“I don’t like that,” He shakes his head. “What kind of god should be wrathful like that? What kind of god would want that kind of vengeance on someone, just for them being in the wrong place?”

“She hung the stars in the sky, Dean,” Castiel frowns. “She wept to form the seas. Why is it that She should be the kind of God that pleases you, or me, or anybody?” Dean clenches his jaw at Castiel’s words—and they are difficult, bitter ones to swallow, certainly. “And in any case,” Castiel continues, “She is not vengeful, not wrathful unless needed. The caves that are most sacred, in which Angels gain their powers, are miles and miles beneath the cities. To reach them, an Angel will travel very far—they won’t be there by accident. So if they should not be standing in the hallowed caves, then they will have plenty of warning that they ought to turn back: miles and miles of sacred, crystal halls. They will be able to taste God, and Her power, and the potential for Her fury. And it’s not even as though She’s angry; but She’s fire and salt and air and lightning and storm. And we are flesh and bone and dust: we break. We burn.”

Dean swallows thickly.

“I don’t like that,” He shakes his head. “I don’t think that I like any faith or creed that I have heard of. They’re all cruel, or encourage cruelty, or teach a cruel god. Hera’s god left us for dead: we believe—well, _I_ don’t—but the people I will one day rule think that there is a God, and He left us for dead, gave up on us. And He’s angry and wrathful, so when he sends things down to earth, they’re only punishments. My mother,” He swallows, looking torn, as though he’d rather not be sharing this with Castiel, “believed in two gods, Mother and Father, loving and wise and strong—but judging, too. She—and people from Eofor—believe that anyone who doesn’t follow _their_ Gods won’t taste the afterlife, but will perish and decay. That’s cruel, too.”

Castiel hums softly, deep in thought. Certainly, it would be easy to condemn any being more powerful than oneself of not doing more to help the world below them, and he can both see and understand Dean’s point. But that doesn’t make it right.

Dean begins thrashing through the brush, again.

“I think you presume to know too much,” Castiel starts, thoughtfully. “I know that every faith claims to be the only one of any legitimacy, but… We’re vain, when we claim to know better than another religion, or the powers that religion worships.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“It’s not a big deal, actually,” He says. “In fact, I’d rather not talk about it.”

They reach the stream which must have been emitting the sounds of water Castiel heard earlier. Dean chases it upstream, Castiel follows behind, perplexed. Turrets of water bounce of stones and birdsong rings round the trees about them, small finches darting from one branch to another, cocking their heads curiously then flitting away in panic at the Human and the Angel, traipsing through the forest.

“Where are we going, Dean?” Castiel asks, who had not seriously considered that their movements held any particular sort of purpose or direction, until now, and had in fact considered that they were both simply ambling through the woodland.

“Sammy and I discovered this place when we were children,” Dean explains, clambering over a boulder. “I realised I hadn’t shown it to you, yet. So,” He states, as Castiel slips after Dean, down a huge rock twice the height of Dean’s horse—he’s never been in a part of the forest so wild, before—“I thought I’d show it to you, now.”

“I see,” Castiel answers, a little puzzled. Dean pushes through a thicket, and the Angel follows after him. The sight he is met by steals the breath from his lungs.

Huge boulders—the height of the shorter houses in the Heran citadel, yet the width of only two men across—are arranged in studded formation in an enormous circle ahead of them. They are a pale, brilliant blue, and are quite possibly the prettiest things in Hera—aside from Dean—that Castiel has ever had the trembling, disbelieving joy of seeing.

Dean steps forward and strikes one of the stones with the flat of his sword.

“Don’t—” Castiel protests instinctively, shocked at the Human, but stops short.

For the enormous stone could just as easily be a bell of some sort—a huge, unearthly bell that emits a bright, pale noise, high pitched and somehow unnatural—and suddenly, all the boulders in the circle begin to join in, one by one they sing along.

Low, guttural ringing that sound eerily like Human voices; high twinkling chimings some of which could be mistaken for birdsong, others for windcharms, others for coins jangling against one another.

And each one of these notes layers on top of the others, slips neatly, seamlessly below it, so that it sounds as though a song is playing, although the music never changes. It raises the hairs on Castiel’s forearms, he falls short of breath.

He knows magic when he sees it—or rather, hears it—but what sort of magic is in this place? And how did it come to reside here?

Dean steps into the circle.

“Careful, Dean—!” Castiel almost shouts, but Dean only glances behind him and laughs.

“Calm down, Cas,” He chuckles, “I’ve done this a thousand times before. Come over here. It’s perfectly safe.”

Castiel frowns and shakes his head, doubting very much that this place could ever be considered _perfectly_ safe, but he follows Dean into the circle nonetheless.

Once inside, the atmosphere around him tastes, feels, sounds different. The air is cooler, lighter. The ringing has changed, almost indiscernibly, in voice.

In the middle of the circle lies a wider, though far far shorter stone in an oval shape, the same hue and texture as all the others, about up to Castiel’s waist. It could almost be a _table—_ but what would this be used for, here?

“What is this place?” Castiel asks, looking about him, at the circle of stones stretching high above his head. It is a miracle in itself that none of these have collapsed, yet; they are so thin and so tall and so clearly ancient that by all logic and reason, they should have fallen long, long ago. And yet they haven’t. So why not?

“I don’t know,” Dean answers, his voice quieter than normal, somehow reverend. Castiel wonders if, despite all his protestations, Dean’s religion lies somehow _here,_ in a circle of primeval blue-silver stones in the shadows of the Heran forestland. “But it’s old, I can tell. _Really_ old.”

“Yes,” Castiel looks about him, noticing that each of the boulders is carved, emblazoned with runes; some huge, the size of children, some small, the size of eggs. “What do these symbols mean?” He asks, approaching one of them and pointing. It looks eerily familiar to him, though he cannot thing why, and is in a more spiralling, intricate script than any he is used to. He doesn’t recognise it from _any_ of his readings of Human literature.

“I don’t know,” Dean replies again, shaking his head, and stepping forward to be next to Castiel, once more. His fingers trace absent mindedly at the tips of the Angel’s feathers, which bristle imperceptibly in their dissonant surroundings, despite Dean’s soothing touch. “It’s—it might be in one of the old languages of the Hill Tribes. They lived across all of Hera, before we drove them back and built castles here. Some say that before Castle Hera was another, older castle on the very same site.” He stops speaking a moment and shrugs. The air rings with the unnatural, the unknown—even to Castiel, who thought he knew more of the magic and mystic than Dean or any other Human. “But it’s all stories. We don’t know, for sure.”

“Whatever it is,” Castiel says slowly, “it was meant for something. How did you find out about the ringing?” He asks of the noise, which has not stopped since Dean first struck his sword against one of the boulders, and which has not grown louder nor more penetrating, but rather more beautiful, more terrifying, with the minutes trickling by.

“Sam and I used to duel, here. And I took Jo here, in secret.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows at Dean.

“She wanted me to teach her to fight,” He explains. “To duel, by sword, you know. But I couldn’t do it anywhere people could see. So I took—take, when I have the time—her here.” He looks sheepishly at Castiel. “She always wanted to learn—but she’s a girl, and a servant, so…”

Castiel’s heart blooms.

“It seems like the perfect place to teach her,” He replies, both honestly, and dishonestly. Something about this place still manages to put him on guard. “But how did you find out about the ringing?”

“Oh, right—well, it was one of the first times she managed to counter a blow. She pushed me right back—I wasn’t expecting it, see—against one of the stones. And my sword struck it, but it was a blunt sword, and it wasn’t _swung_ against it, like it would be for an attack, if you see. And it started making this noise and all of the others joined in—like they were singing. So we tested it out: hit different ones in different ways, hit different ones at the same time. It was _lots_ of fun—but we didn’t get so much duelling done, for a while after that.”

“I can imagine,” Castiel chuckles, still oddly nervous. He glances back to the boulder in front of them, and lays a hand on the rock, palm resting over one of the carved, unknowable inscriptions. The moment he does so, the ethereal ringing all around them ceases, and silence resonates, echoing over the other boulders which swiftly follow the first into a quiet more resounding than the noise that preceded it.

Castiel jumps back, Dean stares at him in surprise.

“It’s never done _that_ before,” Dean states. Castiel turns to him, puzzled.

“What?”

“Stopped, when you touch it.”

“What does it normally do?”

“Fade out, or you hit it with your sword, again.”

Castiel turns back to the rock, bewildered.

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Dean replies, shaking his head. “And I’ve known this place for _years.”_

“No,” Castiel presses, “I mean I don’t _understand_ this place.”

“I heard you the first time, Cas.”

“I think we should go,” Castiel takes a hold of Dean’s hand and pulls him out of the circle.

“Bullshit, we should,” Dean wrenches his hand free and stops in his tracks. “I’ve just found out something new about the stones. I haven’t found out _anything_ new about them for _years._ We have to stay.”

“We do not,” Castiel glares.

“And why not?”

“It’s not safe, Dean,” Castiel shakes his head. “Can’t you tell?”

“Obviously not,” Dean answers. “I think you’re just being wet. What makes you think it’s dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel draws a deep breath, “I just feel as though I’m…. unwelcome, there.” He stops, realising how ridiculous he sounds. “I don’t know,” He shakes his head quickly again. “I just don’t like it. Don’t trust it. It’s not a magic I’m familiar with. And anyway, how do you know you’re the only person in these lands that know of this place? What do other people use it for?”

“I doubt they use it for anything,” Dean rolls his eyes. “What _could_ they use it for?”

“Dark magic,” Castiel answers quickly.

Dean scoffs.

“ _Dark magic?”_ He repeats, incredulously.

“Yes,” Castiel glares.

“Well, I’m calling bull on that too, at least. It’s magic, maybe—but not a bad sort.”

“How can you tell?” Castiel asks. “What experience do you have of it? Of any magic?”

“I have years of experience _here,”_ Dean gestures back to the circle, “and have never been harmed. And I daresay I know a _sliver_ more of Human magic than you do, Cas.”

Castiel sighs pointedly.

“I can tell we won’t agree on this.”

Dean crosses his arms.

“Probably not.” Then he softens. “But can we _please_ go back in? I want to know what it’s _for,_ and every secret discovered is like, a secret closer to knowing its purpose.”

Castiel presses his lips together.

“Fine,” He groans. “Fine.”

Back in the circle again.

“I wonder what happens when _you_ strike the stone,” Dean murmurs, staring at the boulder Castiel unintentionally silenced with no more than a touch. The Angel’s insides squirm uncomfortably, but he takes the sword that Dean brought with him.

“You say it is swords that make the stones sing?”

“Metal,” Dean shrugs. “I mean, we’ve tried with other kinds of weapons, other tools, and when they’re metal, the rocks make noise. But wood, other stone, anything else? It doesn’t work.”

Castiel turns back to the stone. He wonders what would happen if it were struck against _itself._

Somehow, this thought also manages to be disconcerting.

“Okay,” Castiel steels himself, drawing the sword back, breathing deeply in. “Here we go.”

And he hits the stone with the flat of his sword.

He expects the boulders to begin crumbling and collapsing all around them, and is surprised when they don’t. What _does_ happen is even stranger.

The ringing starts, but this time, the stones do not sing different notes. They are unified: a low drone begins, but slowly, almost unnoticeably, it grows higher and higher in pitch. And all the rocks sing in unison.

Castiel turns to Dean, bewildered.

“What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shakes his head. “But now touch it. See if you can stop it.”

Castiel does this, over the same symbol as he did before, just to be sure—but nothing happens. Why does nothing happen?

“Why isn’t it working?” Dean asks, frowning. Castiel draws back and shrugs.

“I don’t know,” He answers. “But I suppose we can just go back, now—”

“No,” Dean shakes his head stubbornly, taking a step forward and placing his hand on the rock. “Why isn’t it—” But he stops short. He stops short because, no sooner than he has placed his palm on the rock, the ringing stops, as it did with Castiel, the first time round. “Well, this _is_ a development,” He grins at Castiel, wide-eyed, in a way so childish and sincerely happy that Castiel forgets to feel angry at Dean for his ridiculous foolhardiness.

“It doesn’t bring us any closer to understanding what this place’s purpose is,” Castiel points out.

“No,” Dean admits, “but… I mean, now we know that there _must_ be one. Like, really must be.”

“How do we know that?” Castiel inquires, peering confusedly at Dean.

“Because it just did two different things!” Dean exclaims. “Two things that it’s never done before! And think about it—you’re an Angel. I’ve never brought an Angel here before. Only me, Jo and Sam. Maybe it was _built_ for Angels and Humans.”

“Or maybe,” Castiel sighs, tugging Dean away, once again, “you’re just being ridiculous. Here, let’s go now, I’m tired, and we haven’t eaten.”

“You’re afraid,” Dean grins, even more immature than ever.

“I am _not._ We can come back tomorrow, fine, no problem. We can even _duel_ here tomorrow. But it’ll get dark, soon, and I’d rather not be lost in the forest at night, thank you very much.”

“You’re a baby,” Dean beams, but slips his hand into Castiel’s and consents to begin the long journey back to the citadel with the Angel. “And I’ll thrash you, if we duel, tomorrow.”

“In all our years of training together, Dean,” Castiel rolls his eyes good-naturedly, “I would have hoped that by now, at least, you’d have learnt that you will _never_ win against me in a fight.”

 

 


	15. The Lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be from Dean's perspective, and shit is gonna hit the FAN you guys. I hope you're ready. Also, so many important clues are in this chapter and lots of foreshadowing and basically, I hope you enjoy it even if it's not a Dean/Cas chapter. We do get some potential romance (well, more angst) in it anyway, just not from our favourite angel/human pairing.
> 
> Enjoy, and please leave a comment!

>  
> 
> **“I wonder, do we all know where we belong? And if we do, in our hearts, why do we so often do nothing about it? There must be more to this life, a purpose for us all, a place to belong. You were my home. I knew from the moment I met you.”**
> 
> **— Beyond Borders (2003), director: Martin Campbell**
> 
>  

 

** Anna **

_“You were cruel to her,”_ Anna frowned at Michael, holding a sleeping Castiel in her arms, only mere days old. _“You spoke to her harshly and never once acknowledged the thousand kindnesses she offered you.”_

And Michael _did_ do this; Ahava was so kind and gentle to Michael that it seemed almost as though she did so out of regret, guilt, for some past actions—but what could she possibly have to be guilty for? She was as calm and soft as grass, as soil; she lived, she brought life, she breathed so quietly it was as though she wished to be gentle even to the _air._

 _“I doubt,”_ Michael bristled, wings threatening to flair—and certainly, if Anna were more like Gabriel, or indeed any other Angel, this would be a threat that had an effect on her—but she was braver and fiercer than her brother often gave her credit for. _“I doubt very much, Anna, that it is any of your business, actually—but you would do well to remember that mothers are not nearly so kind, so gentle, so unassailable to criticism, as you think.”_

Anna wanted to protest, but Michael spoke over her.

 _“What is more, Anna, I care for_ you, _don’t I? I care for Gabriel. I care for…_ all _my siblings, because you are my brothers and sister. What does it matter what I think—thought—of Castiel’s mother? Can I only love him through her? What does it matter what_ anyone’s _mother is like? We are not moulded in their image, are not wholly, or even half, like them—and I for one am very relieved about that.”_

Anna glared.

Michael seemed to be speaking about something quite different than just Castiel towards the end of his rebuttal.

_“I cannot understand why she was so kind to you, in all the years I knew her.”_

Michael seemed unaffected.

 _“Neither can I,”_ His answer was frank, cold, very much removed. He took Castiel from Anna’s arms like a child would snatch a new toy from another; and Anna wanted to shout in protest—Castiel immediately began to cry in complaint of being moved so suddenly, held by someone new, clearly distressed.

 _“Give him back!”_ Anna exclaimed. But no sooner than she had done so, Michael had soothed the crying baby into sleep again, like the older brother he had always been, the one destined to deal with infants and children with a temperance like magic. Would Castiel be resting so soundly in Michael’s arms if he had even the faintest idea of how Michael loathed his mother?

Anna swallowed thickly, glaring daggers and standing.

 _“Remember, Michael, that this boy will not always be an infant for you to fawn over. Not forever. The day will come when he is grown, you no longer think him sweet, you no longer think him charming, and he will no longer bring you delight. Will you love him_ then?”

Michael looked up to Anna, coolly. It made her skin prickle.

She had not known Lucifer; she had been only a baby at his betrayal—but it seemed to her, from all the stories she heard, that Michael became more and more like him every day. Cool and calculating, humourless, nonchalant, frosty.

 _“Certainly,”_ He replied, cocking his head slightly. _“I still love_ you, _don’t I?”_

 _“You_ know _that’s different, and you know why!”_

 _“Leave, Anna,”_ Michael sighed, waving his hand vaguely from Anna to the door. _“You are making a fool of yourself, I will not stand for it.”_ Gentler, this time, before Anna had the time to spit fire at Michael, _“You are in mourning. Go. Grieve. Comfort our father for his wife.”_

 _“You will not grieve, also?”_ Anna asked, eyes burning. _“You do not care that Ahava is dead?”_

Michael looked up at Anna with cold, watery eyes.

 _“Care?”_ He repeated, as though the word left a bad taste in his mouth. Thunder crackled outside the palace. _“I have tasted much loss, Anna, remember that. Much loss. More than you can fathom.”_ He shook his head. _“Leave, Anael. I care for Castiel. I care that you are grieved. But_ mothers?” He faltered for a moment. _“They are not all that you build them up to be.”_

Anna left before Michael could affront her further.

He had once been her sun and stars, also; mother and father to _her._ Michael, mysterious, grim, contrary Michael, who no doubt had cradled Anna in his arms when she was a babe, as he cradled Castiel now, soothing an infant of the loss of their mother.

Anna stopped to glance out of a window. Rain beat in streaks of silvery-gray against the stones of the palace courtyards and gardens, it churned the soil up into mud. Anna curled her wings around herself to shield her body from the cold. The rain turned into hail.

 

 

** Gabriel **

 

 _“You will fly with mother,”_ Michael changed his tunic from one lined with fur to one with a great, blazing sun on it. He placed a pair of boots, thick and unused, into his pack.

They left for Eofor today, Michael and Lucifer flying together, Gabriel with their mother, who would no doubt be fussing over him and stopping him playing with his brothers as much as possible.

 _“But I want to fly with_ you,” Gabriel protested, frowning, no doubt a little petulantly, up at his older brother.

 _“Grow up, Gabriel,”_ Lucifer’s sneering voice, already clearly tired with his little brother’s antics, echoed through the two young princes’ chambers as he entered. His confident footsteps sounded clear and cutting across alabaster tiles.

Michael sighed, his gaze flitting from Gabriel to behind the young Angel, following his twin.

_“Luc, be kind—”_

_“I am,”_ Lucifer flopped onto his bed, crossing his feet. _“Gabe needs to find his own friends, and stop clinging onto us like a limpet. It’s boring.”_

Michael glared, but Gabriel’s face burned, as did his eyes. He looked down at the floor, ashamed, yet Michael was, in the next instant, kneeling down in front of him and tilting his chin up so that Gabriel was looking at him.

“I’m _Gabriel’s friend, and glad of it,”_ He smiled warmly, but there was something doubtful in his eyes that nearly made Gabriel recoil on instinct. It was not, he was sure, that Michael was not telling the truth, but rather that the older Angel was troubled and upset by something. _“Don’t listen to Lucifer. He’s just in a bad mood because we’re travelling to Eofor, today—”_

 _“As you should be, Michael,”_ Lucifer sighed from his bed. _“How could anyone_ possibly _feel happy about visiting a_ Human _kingdom?”_

 _“You have been listening to the soldier, Uriel, too much, I think,”_ Michael frowned thoughtfully, not turning to Lucifer, but rather still gazing pensively at Gabriel and calling the words over his shoulder to his brother, behind him. _“I, for one—”_

_“Michael!”_

Michael jumped up instinctively at the familiar bark of their mother. Her amber eyes and orange hair blazing, she stalked into the room and laid her hands on both Gabriel’s shoulders.

 _“Mother,”_ Michael stared back at her, looking worried and despondent. _“What is it?”_

She seemed to simply fume for several moments.

_“Stop distracting Gabriel. I’ve asked you to pack already, now do it—”_

_“Lucifer isn’t packing,”_ Gabriel pointed out, but their mother ignored him.

 _“And don’t give me that insolent look, nor those insolent words. I_ swear _by Mother God, you—”_

 _“Mother, Lucifer hasn’t packed at_ all,” Gabriel pressed. _“But Michael has at least started.”_

But it was no good. Their mother gave Michael an infuriated look, as though she blamed Michael for Gabriel’s courage to stand up to her, and Lucifer drawled,

 _“We have_ servants _for that mess, I’d rather keep myself out of it, thank you.”_

 _“I will call some servants in for you,”_ Their mother nodded to Lucifer. _“Michael, I expect you to be finished within the hour. And don’t start giving my darling child ideas about flying with you, rather than me.”_ She squeezed Gabriel’s shoulders again. _“I will check back on your progress before the hour is out. Don’t disappoint me.”_

 ** _“Ima,_** _mama,”_ Gabriel protested, _“you give servants to Lucifer to help him, but not to Michael.”_

Their mother, who had been exiting, turned to Gabriel and peered seriously at him.

 _“Lucifer asked for servants. Did_ Michael _ask_ _for servants?”_

Gabriel had no answer. The Queen held out her hand for him.

 _“No?”_ She asked. _“I thought not.”_ Her gaze flitted coolly up to Michael, whose head was bowed, cheeks perhaps a little flushed, though with his face turned so firmly to the ground, it was difficult to tell. _“Come, Gabriel,”_ The Queen turned back to her youngest son. Her pale skin seemed almost the same translucent colour as the moon in the cool light of the twin’s quarters. _“I will help you pack.”_

** John **

****

Another year had passed, and still King John had found no woman he desired to name his wife. The women he saw in the royal courts _bored_ him, he had become so familiar with their giggles and cyclical conversations that he was now able to predict what each woman introduced to him would say next. _“It’s_ such _a joy to speak with you, King John”, “Your knights are_ oh _so valiant, King John”, “I’ve heard that you are something of a heartbreaker, King John!”—_ God. It was incessant.

Only one woman he had ever met had spoken to him like his name was filth, like she did not respect him, _would_ not respect him.

The girl with golden hair from Eofor. She had haunted him, itched across his skin like a bad rash, for near twelve moons, now. And returning to Eofor, John was determined to have nothing to do with her. It was hardly any kind of proper for John to have found a common girl from a foreign land so bewitching, much less so considering the fact that he hadn’t even bedded her—he had only _looked_ at her, spoken to her, argued with her. What kind of enchantment would he feel if he had done anything more? Would it go away if he _did_ do anything more?

Well, it wasn’t likely that he’d find the girl in Eofor, now—even less likely that she would want to talk to him, let alone sleep with him. So any possibility for John to get some peace was, it seemed, entirely out of the question.

He hunted with the King, now, in the forests that surrounded the citadel. All on horseback, he and Victor Henriksen’s party thundered through the forest, and most likely, were scaring away any game they would have a chance of catching.

“Perhaps we ought to go on ahead,” John turned to King Victor, whose dark face was spotted with sunlight that dappled through the leaves overhead.

“Yes, perhaps we ought,” Victor agreed. He smiled, a little wolfishly, and leant closer, something in his person conspiratorial. “None of these men can shoot to save their lives, anyway,” He nodded, “we’d be better off alone.”

John barked out a laugh.

“Well, there we go,” He kicked his horse forward, barking back instruction to his men not to follow either of the Kings. “I’ll be damned if I’ve not caught a deer by this evening, Henriksen.”

“And I’ll be damned if I let you shoot it first,” The King of Eofor kicked his horse forward, too, while the hunting party waited behind. John laughed again as the pair rode through the forest, quieter now, their dogs running ahead of the thump of their horses’ hooves on the fallen leaves beneath.

John spotted it first. His dogs were obedient to a fault, and came to heel with nothing more than a whistle, while King Henriksen’s hunting dogs had such strong instincts that submission to command came with a little more hesitance.

“There,” John pointed with a whisper, to a doe grazing softly on the undergrowth, hazel head bent down.

“As you’re my guest, John,” Victor turned to him, dark eyes sparking with something quietly affectionate, “this kill is yours.”

“You have my thanks,” John grinned, already sliding off his horse soundlessly and pulling an arrow from his quiver, fitting it to the string of his bow.

He trod the trees, dark soil beneath him thankfully muffling his footsteps. They had done almost a perfect circle today in the hunt, searching for deer or elk or any kind of fowl that they could catch. Now he approached a stream that moved with such graceful motion that it created a sound like pebbles rolling over glass: beautiful and trembling and delicate—and the perfect thing to cover the sound of his footsteps.

John pulled back the string of his bow, which made the slightest sound imaginable—the doe’s ears pricked, but she did not have the time to raise her head: in the next instant, John had released the arrow, which whipped through the air, and had, in the time it took to blink, embedded itself into the neck of the doe.

“Good shot!” Henriksen cried, but it was another cry that caught the attention of King John.

He stepped forward, away from the trees that shrouded him, onto the bank of the tiny river. It was strangely familiar, and he glanced first to the fallen deer, her wide black eyes still and unblinking, and then to the other side of the stream, where a figure stood.

_God._

If he didn’t believe in fate now, he certainly came to believe at least in bad luck—and it struck him that he’d been the biggest fool that ever lived, that he hadn’t recognised the stream as the one he’d met the girl with golden hair at, for the second time.

She gaped at him, shocked, and it seemed, grieving—though this expression quickly morphed into one of immeasurable rage.

“You,” She said breathlessly. Then, as though something had bitten at her throat, she shouted, _“You!”_

John gawped.

“You,” He replied, uselessly.

“You shot her!” The girl shouted, and even across the stream, John could make out the fire in her cheeks, the tears burning at her eyes.

“Who?” John asked. Vaguely, as though from a distance further than it ought to have been, he made out the sound of King Victor dismounting his horse to see what all the commotion was about.

 _“Her!”_ The girl cried out, pointing to the doe, lying dead or dying, twitching a very little, on his side of the river.

“A deer?” John raised his eyebrows in disbelief—and perhaps he was being a little dismissive—but the creature wasn’t _Human,_ after all—what did it matter that he had shot it?

“Yes!” The girl began to cry in earnest now. “What did she ever do to you?”

“Well, nothing,” John frowned, perplexed. “But I was on a hunt, and she was a deer. What else would happen?”

“You heartless—” The girl cried out in scorn, just as Henriksen approached behind King John, and came to stand beside him. The girl didn’t notice, she was crying too heavily.

“Why is this a problem?” John asked, totally at a loss. “It’s just a deer. You eat meat, don’t you? Where do you think _that_ comes from?”

“I’ve been visiting that deer for a _year,_ now,” The girl bent down to the bank of the river and picked up a stone. What was she picking up a stone for? “And you just _killed_ her!”

It was with this that she stood again, and hurled the stone at John.

“What the fuck?!” John exclaimed dodging it only just, but Victor barked louder.

“Girl!” He shouted, and as he did, she straightened up in surprise, eyes widening at the sight of her own king. He shook his head gravely. _“Mary Campbell,”_ He sighed, exasperated. “I ought to have you killed, for such defiance of the King of Hera! Such open disrespect, such disregard—”

The girl hardly seemed to care, though her face became more sombre at the threat from King Victor, and she ducked her eyes.

“Your parents would be _mortified,”_ Victor continued. “Your parents, my most trusted advisers—to know that their _daughter_ hurled stones at our ally, the _King—”_

“He shot my friend!” She shouted back, frown biting back across her face.

The King looked aghast.

“How old are you, girl?! Are you still a child, that you would call an animal your friend?! How _dare_ you shout back at me! Was the deer _yours_ to save, or was King John hunting in _my_ forest, through _my_ trees? Am I not the king of this land? Do you think you have more claim over the creatures in it than _me?”_

At last, the girl hung her head sincerely in shame.

But John slid his hand onto King Victor’s shoulder to calm him.

“Do not be too harsh on her,” He said softly in the Kings ear. Victor’s features twisted in surprise. “We’ve… run into each other before, and I have been less than kind. Perhaps her anger is deserved—if not as repayment for today’s meeting, then for the meetings we have had in the past.”

“John,” Victor turned to him, but John shrugged him off. “Take the deer,” He said, gesturing to it. “It is yours. I would like to speak with the girl.”

Victor’s face darkened, but John pulled a dismissive expression.

“ _Speak,_ Victor, and nothing else. You go on ahead. I will catch up with the party shortly.”

And so it was. Henriksen nodded, lips pressed suspiciously together, and slung the doe over his shoulder easily, carrying it over to the brilliant, ruddy-brown stallion that was his mount.

“We shall eat her tonight, if you would like to,” Henriksen called from his horse.

“Yes,” John nodded, eyes not moving from the girl with golden hair. “I think so.”

Henriksen kicked his horse into a canter, then a gallop, and thundered off, back towards their hunting party.

John stared at the girl.

Her face was blotchy from crying, and she scowled at the ground, rather than looking at him, but he was not put off.

“You’re very childish,” He commented. This earnt him a hard glare. He laughed in response. “And you were much nicer to me, last time I saw you—no cruel words or stones thrown, then. I wonder why that was? Perhaps because you had just realised I was a king—”

“Oh, fuck off!” The girl shouted. “I have _never_ said a cruel word to you, only what you were due—”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” John feigned a mournful frown, “I forgot—I killed your _friend,_ just now. No wonder you’re crying! But tell me, girl, was the deer your only friend, or just your first?”

The girl looked tempted to bend and through another rock in the direction of John’s head—but now that he was expecting it, both of them knew that he would have no trouble dodging it. What was more, both understood that he would be able to get the girl caught in more suffering than she would care to think of, if she _did_ dare to defy him in such a way again.

“I may be childish,” She admitted, “but there is nothing shameful in seeing beauty in the world. Deliberate cruelty, however, is not forgivable.” Her face hardened, “And if Henriksen were any kind of king proud of his people and their religion, he would know that hunting defenceless animals is a right that _no one_ has, not even a king.”

“ _Animals_ hunt defenceless animals,” John pointed out, “why shouldn’t we, if it is the natural order? And where in your religion does it tell you not to _eat_?”

The girl was put out. She cast her gaze down.

“Please, just leave,” She said softly. “You—every time I see you, you disturb my peace. Something bad happens. I am insulted, left mortified. Every… _every_ time. It is cruel of you. If you have any kind of Human kindness—please leave.”

For some reason, these words hurt John.

Something inside him recoiled. Then it lashed out in defiance.

“You think that I care how a muddy-clothed girl from Eofor feels?” He asked, wrinkling his nose. “What reason have you given me to care for _you_?”

She looked up at him, dismayed, affronted, but King John went on.

 _“You,_ girl, who could not even recognise a King when he walked into you—you think you have the right to ask _me_ for kindness? No. No, you were sorely mistaken. You, who wouldn’t even tell me your name, when I asked? Well, I know it now—and know the name of your family, also. Henriksen said it, didn’t he? _Mary Campbell._ A plain name for a plain girl, I suppose—tell me, Mary—”

But Mary didn’t tell him.

She had instead thrown another rock at his head.

This one hit its target squarely between the eyes.

John swore loudly, cursing the girl and her stupid deer, and was looking up, ready to—well, he wasn’t quite sure how best to punish her for her insolence—but Mary was already marching through the trees, back to the citadel.

He swore loudly again and shot an arrow into a rotting tree in frustration, before dashing back to his horse, rubbing at the sore patch on his forehead, and mounting. He clicked, and his horse began to gallop, his dogs following after him.

Mary Campbell.

Was it a good thing, or a bad thing, he wondered, that now he could put a name to the face that haunted him and set his skin burning?

He was sure that over the next few days, all that would be made clear.

****

** Michael **

 

Eofor.

A new city; one filled with sounds and smells so refreshing and fascinating that Michael hardly cared for Lucifer’s frosty manners to the Humans, almost didn’t notice his mother’s removed, icy treatment of him. The citadel thrummed like a beating heart, with so much life and vigour that Michael was almost knocked down by it. What a strange thing to be able to visit a realm so different it was practically another world!

He envied Gabriel for being able to observe the city through the new and bright eyes of an infant, for being able to bounce through the streets and greet every person he met with as much sincere captivation as he liked. As for Michael, he had to stand on ceremony—not least because his mother would have him flayed if he stepped so much as a toe out of line, no matter how much softer father would be with him.

But now, at last, he had a chance to _breathe,_ breathe the warm, new, heavy air of a foreign land, on his own. It was sweet: he stood in the stables of the castle, vast long ones filled with the stamping of horse’s hooves and friendly, indignant snorts, the rattle of chains and perfume of leather, straw, and the sweet undefinable smell of horse’s breath and hair.

This was something that excited him almost above all other prospects—though there was much to look forward to, so much that it almost overwhelmed him: it was of course, the possibility of learning to _ride._

What a joy that would be! Of sitting on top of another living creature, a big, breathing, living thing that one could build a kind of friendship with, and walk, run, jump with it, so that it was like flitting through the air in the same way an arrow is released from its quiver.

Michael had spoken to warriors who rode, and were, it was said, so fearsome in combat that none could stand against them. He desired nothing more than to do much the same, to move like the wind astride a horse that knew him so well that their motions were identical in heart and mind and execution.

He stared into the jewel-like, brown eyes of the horse nearest to him, reaching out a tentative hand. It stared at him sweetly, and only moved its head a little when his hand came to rest on its muzzle.

 “What are you doing here?”

A defensive voice down the row of paddocks, to his right, made Michael jump. The horse he had been resting his hand on instinctively pulled back from him and shifted awkwardly away from the Angel from within the confines of its pen.

“Sorry—” Michael stammered, totally surprised, stepping back from the door of the horse’s stall. More indignant snorts and snuffles sounded around him; apparently these creatures could sense surprise, and fear. “I—I wanted to see—”

“These place is off limits,” Michael turned to see a Human boy, about his age, stalking towards him and whirling around to soothe the horse Michael had apparently bothered. “Especially guests.”

Michael felt drained.

He sighed, deflating: a full week, it had been, of getting told off—the Queen had been berating him and blaming him for every little mistake made, his father scolding him for losing his temper, Lucifer making snide remarks about his spending so much time with Gabriel, his tutor reprimanding him for his inability to pay attention in his lessons… and now this. A stable-hand barking at him for exploring a new country.

“Sorry…”

The stable-boy hand been making quiet, soft, whinnying and chirping noises to the horse, talking to it in soft tongues Michael didn’t quite catch—but he turned to face Michael, now.

As he did, Michael straightened, instinctively, though the boy peered steadily at him, the Angel felt a little taken-aback.

“I’ve seen you,” The stable-hand started, green eyes flitting over all of Michael’s frame, before narrowing accusingly at the uncomfortable bristle of his wings in reaction to being appraised quite so obviously.

“Really?” Michael asked. The boy pressed his lips together and brushed a small piece of straw from his sandy-coloured hair. “I haven’t seen you…”

“I keep to the shadows,” The boy replied quickly, sounding defensive. “Nobles don’t like servants hanging about. And I don’t much like hanging about with them, as it happens.”

Oh.

Michael took another apologetic, reflexive step back.

“Sorry,” He murmured again. Perhaps he simply ought to go…

“I’ve seen you,” The boy repeated, and Michael frowned unsteadily.

“You’ve said…”

“And your family,” The boy continued, quite ignoring Michael.

“I see,” Was his only uncertain reply.

“You’re one of those Angels—”

“What gave it away?” Michael cocked his head to the side, but the stable-hand didn’t seem amused. The Angel pulled an apologetic face, berating himself inwardly—he should have _known_ better than to attempt a joke—it was foolishness, especially with a foreigner so clearly feeling defensive.

“One of the _royal_ Angels,” The stable-hand clarified, with an eye-roll. “I’ve seen you at all the ceremonies about the city. The whole place is in uproar.”

“Sorry?”

“Well, I’ve been working twice as hard as I normally do, which is a lot anyway, is all I mean. But inbetween working and watching, I’ve seen you.”

“And?” Michael asked, nonplussed.

“And I can’t understand you,” The boy continued, cocking his head to the side, also, so that Michael became suddenly intimately aware of how it was that the stable hand was, most likely, mocking him. “You _stand_ with the royals, yet you don’t act like you’re one of them. What are you, their ward? Allowed to stand with them, yet not be _one_ of them, if that makes sense?”

Michael frowned, puffing himself out, flaring his wings—though in the confined space, it didn’t work at all, and he could only raise them off the ground and up to his shins, and was certain he looked more than a little ridiculous.

“I am _not_ a ward,” He answered, a little angry, now. “I am Michael **Mashach El,** an Anointed One, son of the High King of Evadne, of the line of Aovae, the Firstborn, the—”

“Then why does that queen—your mother, I take it—treat you so unkindly?”

Michael swallowed.

“She—the Queen is—” But the words escaped him. “I am disobedient,” He bowed his head, “and she… puts up with me. And loves me, of course, she must—but I’m sure it’s difficult—”

She’s your mother. Isn’t loving their children what parents are meant to do?” The boy asked this as though Michael were very dull indeed, and began to unknot the reigns hung beside each stall. “I had assumed you were a bastard child, or something, with the way she looks at you. But you say she loves you, and that you are not a ward, so…” He sighed pointedly and hung up a now untangled pair of reigns.

“So why do you ask?” Michael glared. “And why do you insult my mother?”

“She doesn’t even _look_ like you,” The boy continued, picking up a broom and sweeping up the straw littering the stable floor.

“What do you mean?” Michael frowned.

“I mean,” The boy began, “Move your feet,” He swatted at the Angel’s boots with the bristles of the broom as he continued to tidy, “that your brothers—I’m assuming they’re your brothers?”

Michael nodded.

“Well,” The servant continued, “ _they_ look like her. Eye colour, wing colour, even hair colour, to an extent. But then there’s you.”

Michael shifted as the boy swept around him.

“Maybe you should work a little harder, instead of staring at other people. I’m sure you aren’t identical to _your_ family, but you don’t see me nosing about in your business. I already _felt—”_

He cut himself off.

The boy inclined his head again.

“Felt what?”

Michael groaned inwardly, knowing he would regret this.

“Felt like I didn’t fit in,” He sighed, resigned. “I don’t need you making it worse.”

The servant peered apologetically at Michael.

“Sorry.”

Michael shrugged, kicking at the ground.

“It’s fine. I should go. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Go where?” The servant asked as Michael turned and began to walk back up the line of horse-stalls on either side of him.

“Back to my quarters, my family will be—”

“Your family who you don’t fit in with?” The stable-hand asked. Michael stilled, turning back again, ready to spit fire upon the boy. But when he did, something stilled him. The servant’s face was smudged with dirt and his hair was all a mess, his clothing was stained and torn and patched and repatched, most likely from years and years of hard work in the King’s paddocks.

Michael said nothing.

“Why did you come to the stables?” The boy asked, at last, with a small laugh.

Michael pressed his lips together.

“All I mean is,” The stable-hand resumed, “you could have gone anywhere. The libraries. The banqueting halls. The Great Hall. The forest. Yet you came here. Why?”

Michael toed at the ground.

“I wanted to see the horses,” He admitted. “I wanted… I’ve always wanted to learn how to ride.”

The servant’s sturdy, hard features softened.

“Oh,” He answered. “That makes sense.”

Michael’s brow was still knotted together.

“I will return to the castle,” He looked at the ground instead of at the Human. “I—I am sorry for bothering you.”

“It wasn’t a bother,” The boy rolled his eyes again. “And stay.”

“What?”

“Stay,” The stable-hand pressed, a little exasperated, this time. “Company is company, and if you’d like to learn about the horses, then I can teach you. There’s none better than me, I know these creatures best. As for riding, you’ll have to wait ‘til all my duties are done—but Fathi KaZenon—that’s my master, the King,” He added, a sliver of pride gnawing at his features, “he likes me plenty, and he’s alright himself—so he lets me ride the horses when I have the time. I break them in. I do everything,” His chest swelled a little more with pride—or perhaps he puffed it out with unintentional smugness. “So I can teach you, if you’d like.”

Michael’s expression dropped with surprise, his insides flooding with gratitude.

“You’d—you’d do that?”

“Of course,” The stable-hand chuckled. “You’re not all bad, Mitch-hael, Mazzach Ell, or whatever you are.”

Michael chuckled, despite himself, mood warming.

“Mich-hai-el,” He corrected, “and **_Mass-hach El,”_ ** but the boy wrinkled his nose.

“I’ll call you M,” He decided, but that didn’t much appeal to the Angel.

“Mich-el. Mik-el. Mike-el, if any of those work?” He suggests, and the boy shrugs. “They’re much easier to pronounce in your tongue, and it’s how all your leaders and noblemen have been saying it, anyway. I don’t much mind.”

“I’ll try to learn it your way, as well,” The servant amended with a nod. Michael smiled. The boy’s face changed, though he didn’t quite smile, and Michael decided that he must be a rather curious and sombre creature indeed.

“And what should I call you?” The Angel asked. The boy shrugged.

“My mother calls me Daf, which is short for Dafyth,” He explained. “She’s from the Hill Tribes, eastward,” He explained, at the no doubt bewildered look on Michael’s face. “We travelled here years ago, but I still remember our old home, and the wild horses that we used to tame, and run with, there. My father was an Eofori. In Eofor, I am called David—that’s how Dafyth is said, here.”

“David?” Michael asked, thoughtful.

“That’s what I said.”

“We have a name for that, also—no doubt yours comes from ours.”

“Oh?” The boy asked, a little carelessly.

 ** _“Dawid,”_** Michael went on. “It means Beloved.”

 


	16. Fathers and Deceivers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit. Hits. The. Fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you don't read To Build a Home, you'll have missed that I haven't been able to update any of my stories for the past couple of weeks as I've been travelling in New Zealand! But I'm back now. This chapter is enormously dramatic, anyway, so I hope you enjoy.

 

**“I have longed for people before, I have loved people before.**

**Not like this. It was not this.”**

**— Anne Carson**

 

Hera has held festivals and feasts to celebrate their young prince’s engagement to the future Archangel; but now things are beginning to wind down to a close. And Dean _really_ doesn’t want them to. Because that means Cas leaving, again—and every time Castiel leaves, Dean can’t breathe, and the world turns grey.

Every night is spent in Castiel’s company, limbs bound around body, noses tucked beneath jaws, breathing slowed. They have found that they can talk until dawn, if that is what they wish. Dean wishes it often. The only palpable difference between Castiel’s earlier visits and now is that their evenings are spent with far more kissing and slow, pumping fists and moaning into each other’s mouths than before. They haven’t actually _fucked,_ yet, but Dean is happy—even if he still wants more. Cas has given him no more than a mouth, than a hand—no sex, no lovemaking, whatever it is he would call it. Though he does not mean to, Dean cannot help but wonder why the Angel should hold back.

He can’t stop wanting, _craving_ the Seraph; and more than this, thinks that in a pure and new and almost painful way, he needs Castiel— _needs_ Castiel to need Dean, too. He doesn’t know what any of that means. He doesn’t know if Cas feels the same way.

He’s never known exactly what Cas feels for him—and he doesn’t truly know what he feels for Cas. Equally, he doesn’t want to have to work it out, because truly knowing what he feels for the Angel might just kill Dean. He doesn’t get attached. He _can’t_ get attached.

But _fuck,_ Dean is more than just attached to Cas.

He can say a few phrases in Enochian now. Just a few. But he can tell how happy it makes Cas to hear him speaking it—even if Dean’s accent is frankly terrible, and his pronunciation leaves more than something to be desired—yet seeing Cas’s face light up as Dean’s awkward, heavy tongue stumbles over the words the way a baby takes its first, crude and inelegant steps, curls something bright and warm in Dean’s heart. He likes the thought that one day, he and Cas will actually be able to hold conversation in Enochian.

The Angel mumbles words Dean doesn’t understand against his skin each night.

As little sense as they make to Dean, he drinks them up. He likes the husky quality to Cas’s voice—only further amplified when he is sleepy and sated—and more than this; he likes the warmth and affection that drips off each word spoken by the Seraph.

By their last night together, Dean has begun to accept that perhaps they never will acknowledge their feelings toward one another in terms they can both understand.

Cas glances up, out of Dean’s window, from where he lies on the bed. His nose is tucked under Dean’s jaw, his breath both tickling and warming Dean’s neck. Dean has been watching the way Cas’s chest rises and falls with each breath. He likes doing this. He likes counting the wrinkles around Cas’s eyes and each of his charcoal eyelashes. He likes the moments like this; where the rest of the world is locked out, and Cas is _Dean’s_ and no one else’s, and Dean can pretend—for just a short while, at least—that this is how things are between them. That this is how things always will be.

“You know, over the years, I have observed that it’s extremely difficult to be able to see the stars as clearly, from the Earthly Kingdoms.” Castiel squints slightly, still gazing out of Dean’s open window. Dean notes distractedly that he should probably close it; he and Castiel have a few candles lit and this could attract insects through the open window—but Cas’s speech interrupts his thoughts, and any action he was planning on taking to resolve this.

“When I take you up to my home one day, I will show you all of our stars, and all of our names for them,” Castiel smiles.

“You’d do that?” Dean asks. Something twists at his heart. He doesn’t want to think about what it is.

“Take you to my home? Of course.”

Dean’s heart burns.

“You believe the stars are your dead?”

He speaks quietly, so softly that he is surprised his words make it past the tip of his nose.

“They are _everyone’s_ dead, Dean. Not just the Angels’.”

“Alright—so you believe they’re everyone’s dead?”

“We believe stars are the souls of those we’ve lost, watching over us, yes.”

“What about shooting stars, then?”

“They are those who have been called back to Earth, because Abra has work for them,” Castiel says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

“What, like reincarnation?”

Dean has heard of this from many of the merchants and storytellers down in the citadel; those who have travelled to, or come from, faraway lands beyond the boundaries of Corinna and the Tyrzan mountains that encircle it.

“In a way,” Cas shrugs. “Although perhaps reincarnation isn’t the best word for it.”

“Why’s that?”

“It just doesn’t describe it right, I suppose. Humans don’t believe this, too?”

“The thing about shooting stars?” Dean asks. “No,” He shakes his head. “We don’t believe in any of the stuff that you do about the stars. But I like what you think about them. It’s comforting.”

“I think so, too.”

The Angel’s bright eyes, dimmed by sleepiness and the darkness of the room, crease in rich, beautiful lines at their corners.

“Do you think my mother is up there?” Dean asks. Cas’s eyes turn soft.

“I’m sure she is,” He nods, the movement so minute that Dean barely catches it.

“Do you think she’s proud of me?” He asks, his voice even smaller.

Cas’s hand moves up to cup Dean’s cheek.

“I’m absolutely certain of it.”

Dean leans forward and brushes his lips against Castiel’s.

“I’m so glad I’ve got you, Cas,” He confesses, looking up at the Angel through his eyelashes.

“And I’m glad I’ve got you,” Castiel replies, his voice quiet and gravelly. Something not qite possessive, though close to it, has burnt itself deep into his expression and his tone. Dean wants to bury himself in it. The moment they lie in shimmers with a sacred intensity.

“You’ll always have me,” Dean promises with a soft, thoughtless smile. It’s a foolish thing to say, he knows—it’s reckless and impulsive and an impossible promise to keep, but he doesn’t care. Castiel’s beam in response is more than enough to make up for it. The world around them has grown as still as the earth when it is covered in snow. All around is a pure, blanketing silence like the cloak of snowfall on the ground.

The stars are trembling outside the window.

The Angel’s eyes suffocate, are suffocating, brilliant and bright as an icy sky which pinches at the lungs.

 ** _“I think I’m in love with you, Dean,”_** Castiel says, softly, in Enochian. Dean doesn’t understand. He only recognises his name on Castiel’s lips: all the other words are foreign, however beautiful the Angel’s lips may make them.

“What did you—”

 ** _“I love you.”_** The Angel repeats, pressing his forehead against Dean’s. His gaze presses, hard and sharp, into Dean’s heart. He feels it splinter his soul. And even though he can’t speak Enochian, he thinks he understands what Castiel just said to him.

His mind goes numb.

Cas can’t—he shouldn’t— _nobody_ should, but the Angel apparently _does_ , and something _beyond_ happiness curls warm and bright inside the cage of Dean’s chest, setting it on fire.

Dean’s heart is swelling—it’s swelling, threatening to burst out of his ribcage and break his chest open; and Dean is genuinely scared that it _will,_ that his heart will cause his body to splinter open, all because of Castiel, all _for_ Castiel.

“How do I say it back?” He asks, pressing his palm flat against Cas’s and slotting their fingers together. Castiel glances down and smiles at the familiarity and warmth held in the simple gesture; and his eyes flit back to Dean’s, almost shrouded in disbelief.

“You want to say it back?” He asks, his voice cracking in his throat. “Do you know what it means?”

Dean brushes his nose against Cas’s and nods once, in earnest confirmation, the movement barely there. His lips are parted, though he can hardly breathe at all.

 ** _“I love you, too,”_** Castiel answers.

 ** _“I love you, too, Castiel,”_** Dean smiles. Cas’s frame comes undone. He looks up at Dean and the Heran prince thinks he can see tears in the Angel’s eyes.

Their words are soft and quiet and weighted with sincerity; Dean wants to curl up into Cas’s arms and forget about the rest of the world; he wants then Angel wrapped around his body and pressing his nose into Dean’s hair and whispering those words over and over against Dean’s skin. He wants to hear Cas say it to him, every day.

It’s the first time they’ve said it, aloud.

It’s the first time they’ve said anything.

Dean’s heart is singing.

 

 

…

 

**“My heart was a stone wall**

**you broke through anyway.”**

**— Louise Glück**

 

 

Dean actually pulls Cas into a tight hug in front of _everybody_ on the day that the Angel leaves. He hears his father cough behind him at how inappropriate this is, but Dean doesn’t care. He doesn’t miss the way the Angel’s hands falter slightly before they squeeze at Dean’s body. Dean closes his eyes.

“Write,” Dean mumbles against Castiel’s body. “Promise me you’ll write.”

“Of course,” Cas replies. His hand brushes at Dean’s hair. “And you’ll write back.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Dean confirms that he will, anyway.

“And you’ll _tell me,_ if you’re going to fight in war again,” Castiel says firmly. Dean nods.

“I promise.”

One more squeeze. There is one more squeeze before they pull apart. It is soft with promise and tender warmth. It’s a guarantee and a vow and Dean doesn’t stop to question it; because Castiel gives Dean something he’d never imagined he’d feel, the Angel sets something warm and blazing in Dean’s heart and he doesn’t want to think about having to go without it, now. The people around them apparently find it brilliant that the pair are so close, because the air fills with cooing and cheers and wistful sighs, but the rest of the world doesn’t exist to Dean at this glorious moment.

And then more speeches come; from both Angels and Humans, and then it’s over—Cas leaves. He files into his carriage, behind both of his brothers and his sister, and he gives Dean one last look. One last look with sad, comforting azure eyes before the door is closed, and Dean is forced to go without the Angel again. He balls his fist and squeezes his fingers so tightly his knuckles turn white and tears stab at his eyes.

 

 

…

 

**“All who love have lied.”**

**— Sexton, Anne. “The Operation.”**

 

 

After the Angels leave, John only gets worse. Or maybe Dean only just starts _noticing_ John getting worse. But the King gets more paranoid, certainly: suddenly guards are posted at every corridor and Dean is no longer allowed to leave his quarters at night. And he drinks more. He speaks less. Sometimes Dean will catch Bobby giving John a worried, almost _scared_ look, before noticing Dean staring at him and feigning a smile that holds anything but the reassurance that it intends.

John’s eyes hold only sadness. His body, the body Dean once admired and believed to be unbreakable, unchanging and constant, is weakening with every day that passes. Dean has taken over all of John’s duties. John is only King by title. Sometimes, Dean looks in the mirror and sees the same dark circles under his eyes that he sees beneath his father’s.

He misses Cas more than words can describe.

He writes, just as he promised to do. But it’s hard for him to find the time, and when Cas is gone, everyone around him notices a change in Dean. He closes off. Always, he closes off. Now he can’t sleep without Cas beside him; he can’t vent or speak about how he feels—he reflects that any day now his heart may burst from the ache and strain that his life is putting on it—Dean was not meant for this. He knows it. He was never meant to be a King—be he a stand-in one or not.

The night before Cas’s twentieth birthday is more restless than any other. Staring up at the hangings of his bed, Dean’s insides are strange and murky with foreboding, though he guesses that this is a combination of exhaustion, and missing his best friend with every fibre of his soul.

But a clash of what sounds like thunder drags Dean from slow paced, worried thoughts into a flurry of anxiety.

He barely sleeps anymore, and when he does, his rest is light and easily roused—sleeping deeply puts Dean at more risk of being plagued by awful nightmares of which he finds it impossible to wake from—so, as it is, the sound—and whatever caused it—is enough to have Dean bolting out of his bed before he can think otherwise. He opens his door quickly and peers out.

“Guards?”

“We heard it,” One of them frowns in the flickering of his torchlight. “It came from further down the corridor, I think.”

“What was it?”

“We’ll find out, Sire.”

Dean nods and thanks them, slipping back into his room and pulling on a shirt. A breeze ruffles his hair; the hairs on the back of his neck and forearms bristle. Pinpricks skitter down the planes of his skin.

Perhaps Dean is being paranoid—but he doesn’t remember opening his window.

He peers out onto the corridor, again. The guards have disappeared, all of them gravitating to the direction of the noise. Dean flits into his brother’s room, gazing inside, but Sammy is still fast asleep and this, at least, floods Dean with an overwhelming sense of relief, despite the anxious heart trembling inside the confine of his chest.

A few guards approach him down the corridor again. Something about their pace and composure suggests urgency, and it makes Dean’s insides twist with a disbelieving worry.

“What is it?” He asks in a hoarse whisper.

“It’s probably nothing—” The guard speaking pants slightly inbetween his words, which does nothing to cool Dean’s nervousness, and the confusion lacing the man’s tone only makes Dean’s insides twist up all the more. “—It’s just—It’s strange, Sire—It’s so cold—”

“I’ve noticed,” Dean nods quickly, frowning. “But what did you see?”

“Only an open window.” The guard speaking is from the southern reaches of Hera, Dean can hear it in his accent and the long curls of his vowel sounds. “It’s only funny because we don’t remember opening it. No-one does.”

“But that could mean an intruder,” Dean’s jaw clenches.

“We doubt it—there were guards already positioned down that corridor. They would have seen it—whatever it was—if there had been an intrusion of some kind.”

“Then what opened the window?”

“Probably a breeze,” The guard replies with a shrug. Dean almost wants to shout at him in accusation of laziness, but refrains, swallowing his anger down to his feet.

“And blew it open? Lifted the latch, too? I doubt a breeze could be that strong—”

“Sire, I understand your nervousness, but I really don’t think—”

“And why is it so _cold?”_ Dean shivers as he speaks, and has to clamp his jaw shut to stop himself from quivering and his teeth to clatter together like skeletons. A breeze, like ice, floats down the corridor and makes Dean’s shirt flap against his skin.

“Probably just the weather—”

“It’s _summer.”_

The guard sighs.

“Sire—”

“I’ll investigate it, myself,” Dean rolls his eyes.

“There’s no need—”

“Down that corridor lie my father’s chambers,” Dean reminds, and he surprises himself by how much he bites his words out. “Do _not_ tell me that it’s nothing to worry about when the man who may well be at risk is your _King.”_

“Of course, Sire,” One of the guards bows his head, and the others follow suit and do the same.

“Should one of us go with you?” The first guard asks as Dean steps down the passage toward his father’s room.

“If you’d like,” Dean shrugs carelessly. He breathes in a deep, icy draw of air. “I’d like you to guard Sammy’s room, too. Position yourselves outside of it—in fact, wake him, now—if that person—whoever they are—can climb up through windows, they could climb up through his. Wake him, and stay with him.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Don’t let any harm come to him,” Dean instructs. He balls his fist in an attempt to remain calm, nails digging white, crescent shaped marks into clammy palms.

“Never, Sire.”

He breathes in again as another few guards walk cautiously behind him. Dean doesn’t bother with their tentativeness despite his shuddering body—although he notes, kicking himself internally, that he has no weapon with which to defend himself at hand. His dagger is back in his room.

He stops outside the King’s quarters and pauses at the door, his ear hovering over the wood. He can only hear the sounds of his father’s own disturbed sleep.

“Wake him,” Dean instructs the guards, gesturing to the door. “Keep him safe.”

They nod.

“And where was the open window?” Dean asks, before the last of them has a chance to enter his father’s chambers. The sentry points further down the corridor, and Dean sees it. The air is even colder down this end of the passageway.

Dean walks slowly over to the open window; to the apparent disturbance. The frame is big—bigger than most of the windows in the castle—big enough for a large man to climb through—big enough for a _huge_ man to climb through—it overlooks the citadel, and the forest, and the rolling, rolling hills beyond, boasting a spectacular view during daylight, Dean knows.

He looks down at the cold floor. He is shivering uncontrollably now, with the force of the cold that bites and claws at his skin.

A suit of ceremonial armour has been knocked over. It would’ve been stood just in front of the now open frame of the window.

Dean bites his lip.

Anyone intruding would have risked knocking it down—anyone intruding would have found it difficult to _avoid_ knocking it down—

“So _you_ are the Human they wish my brother to marry.”

Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. He spins around to face the voice that interrupted his thoughts—it is neither warm nor cold; it’s thoughtful and pensive, regarding Dean with a familiarly piercing intelligence, although it makes Dean’s skin prickle uncomfortably.

Then he sees the speaker. He staggers back.

_“Who—”_

“Sorry, little Prince, I didn’t intend to give you a fright.”

Dean is met with some kind of sneer, and his lip curls in defence; as does the anxiety coiling tightly in his gut.

“ _Guards_!—”

“There’s no point in summoning your little tin soldiers, I’m afraid—they’re quite indisposed of, right now.”

Dean’s heart is in his throat. He trembles, a familiar pang of fear shivering over him, disgusted, terrified.

“What have you—”

“Nothing permanent, don’t you worry. Well, nothing _yet.”_

“Who—”

“Why, can’t you tell, Dean?” Another smirk. Dean balls his fist. “After you’ve been spending so much time with my little brother, I would’ve thought you’d be able to recognise a relative of his. Although, from what I’ve heard, he and I do look admittedly rather different.”

“You and Cas—”

“Did he ever tell you about me? I don’t expect he did—I’ve gathered that even my _twin_ barely speaks of me, if at all. I should introduce myself,” The Angel holds out a hand for Dean. “My name is Lucifer.”

Lucifer.

His wings are chilling. They are bright, the lightest white Dean has ever seen, and not unlike like Cas’s in their severe beauty—except that while Cas’s feathers are the blackest black imaginable and dipped in a brilliant blue, this Angel’s are whiter than sunlight on snow and dyed a startling red at their very tips.

And they are huge— _colossal—_ bigger perhaps than even _Michael’s_ wings. Dean trembles at the sight of them; at the sight of this Angel, at the cold filling the air between them.

“You’re shivering,” The Angel observes, humming thoughtfully, absently, as though this is only of moderate interest to him; as though he is merely thinking aloud. “Sorry if it’s a bit chilly. You know—well, I wouldn’t expect _you_ to know, but anyway—most people think I burn hot—it’s actually quite the opposite.”

“What?” Dean frowns.

“Did Castiel tell you that some Angels can burn, Dean? Did he tell you anything at all?”

“Yes,” Dean frowns again, scowling at the Angel, something defensive is twisting tightly inside of him along with his nerves.

“Well, as he may or may not have said, I burn cold. That’s why you’re shivering. That’s why your breath is fogging up as it leaves your body. It’s all my doing, I’m afraid. It’s unintentional, more than anything else, but there we go.”

Dean is as lost as he is terrified.

“And why are you here?”

“I wanted to see the boy my youngest brother is to be married to, naturally. Well, that, amongst other things,” Lucifer’s lips curl upwards into something not unlike a smile, though it is far more unpleasant than any Dean has seen before. Lucifer has light hair, a little lighter than Dean’s; is handsome in a way that Castiel and Michael are not, with their pointed features, sharp jawlines, charcoal eyelashes, and soft prettiness. “Of course, we have actually met before, Dean, although I don’t expect that you’d remember. You were _so_ _very_ young and afraid at the time, after all.”

“What—”

“Perhaps you’ve erased it from your memory entirely; simply out of the sheer terror of the moment,” The Angel’s expression turns slightly arrogant, Dean thinks, his jaw setting.

“What are you—”

“The Demon attack on Hera, all those years ago? Do you not recall?”

“You did that?” Dean frowns, confusion twisting inside of him along with all his fear. “But you’re an _Angel_ —”

“Your powers of observation are astonishing, Dean,” The Angel deadpans. He steps closer to Dean, who starts back on instinct. Another smile plays at his lips. “Relax, Sire, I’m not going to hurt you. Others, certainly. But luckily for you, I rather need you, odd as that may sound.”

“What are you—”

Dean is cut off yet again. Agitation is storming, hot inside his gut. His hands are shaking intermittently, he clenches them and they stop, opens them and they begin again. He tries to steady himself—he is going to be _King_ one day; he has to learn to be brave—he is Prince Regent now: he has to be fearless.

“I haven’t quite finished explaining things, actually. Now, considering the fact that my beloved twin has almost certainly not told little Castiel of all of this, I suppose I’d best start explaining it to _you,_ Dean—and then, perhaps, someone can at last tell Castiel all the information that he has been deprived of his entire existence.”

Lucifer paces around Dean threateningly, and Dean in turn takes appropriate steps back, painfully aware that the corridor leads to a dead end, and he will have to stop backing away at some point. His mind is whirling in an ugly storm cloud as he attempts to figure out what _exactly_ is going on—it’s fruitless, he’s too terrified and confused and adrenaline-pumped to be able to think straight—all his instincts are telling him to either run—a useless and cowardly option—or fight—an impossibly stupid and equally as superfluous an option.

He has no sword, no shield, no weapons whatsoever—and wonders worriedly if Lucifer does. Certainly, Dean can’t see any—but then, he’s an _Angel,_ and a powerful one at that—one powerful enough, perhaps, to not _need_ a weapon at all.

“If you did not know already, centuries ago, I got into a little— _falling out—_ with my twin brother and my father. Following that, I left the Angel Kingdoms. What people neglect to say is _why_ any of this happened.”

Dean narrows his eyes.

“Why did it happen?”

“Years ago, Little Prince, my brother Michael was— _infatuated_ —” Lucifer’s tone turns to something of disgust, “—with a Human _._ Not unlike Castiel is with you, I hear—but Dean, allow me to assure you that Angels _cannot_ love Humans _._ I had always suspected Michael’s childish affections—he spent far too much time travelling down to the Kingdom of Eofor for visits for me not to see it, and Michael was _always_ writing—” Lucifer sighs, cuts himself off. “—That isn’t the point. Anyway, as I said, he was apparently smitten. The night before I left was the night before Michael and I turned twenty-one—do you know what that means for an Angel, Dean?”

Dean nods, a frown knotting at his forehead.

“Yes, it means it was the night before you made your choice.”

“Good,” The Angel hums, sounding moderately impressed at Dean’s acquaintance with his culture. “And do you know what that choice means, Dean?”

“You decide if you want to live a more mortal life, or if you want to live for centuries. Millennia, even.”

“We decide if we want to live a _Human_ life,” Lucifer spits, “—or if we wish to live as _Angels._ As we _should_ live.” Here, the Angel positively scowls. “And do you know _how_ we live as Humans?”

Dean shakes his head. He balls his fists to keep his hands from trembling.

“We _cut out_ our grace in the moments that it forms. We deform ourselves—we destroy all that we are, throw away our gifts—all for the opportunity to live as _Humans._ So, that is, we disfigure ourselves, for the chance to live for a shorter amount of time as an inferior creature. Sounds like a bit of a fucking joke, doesn’t it, Dean?” The Angel’s eyes are wide and furious. Dean has never been more terrified of an Angel.

Dean frowns and nods. So this is what Cas was prepared to do for _him?_ Does he know what it involves? Did he—

“And my dear brother, Michael, the night before he and I were to make this decision, informed me that _he_ was going to carve out his grace and fall, in this way—just to be with his Human. He’d already apparently talked it over with our father and our mother—and they had _applauded_ him for his decision! And I was the only one who could see sense, who attempted to reason with him—but Michael was having none of it. He said he _loved_ his Human. As if an _Angel_ could—” Lucifer bites his lip and cuts himself off.

Dean attempts to steady himself, but it’s difficult—he takes deep, slow breaths, and bites the inside of his mouth hard, hoping the pain will be enough to ground him. Why did Cas never tell him any of this? Did Cas even know? And was the Demon attack on Hera, fifteen years ago, in fact an _Angel_ attack, as Lucifer seems to be implying?

“Things escalated,” Lucifer continues. “And what started out as a fairly petty disagreement quickly grew into a heated discussion… and then in turn, into a fight. And so I left the Kingdom. I knew when I was no longer wanted—my twin, the brother I had once believed would die for me—and I for him—had chosen a _Human_ over me. And so I left.

“But not before stealing away to the caves beneath the mountain, and gaining my grace.  It was past the twelfth hour, you see. We were of age. Michael tried to stop me, but with me, now a fully grown Angel, and he a mere boy in comparison, of course he had no hope.” Lucifer’s expression sours. “And here, Dean, is where the tale becomes a tragedy. My mother—my mother who doted upon me, and whom I adored, got in the way of a blow I aimed at Michael,” His features grow hard and mask something so deeply pained it appears like the black marshes of Corinna, “and was lost.”

“What?”

What does that mean?

“I flew from Evadne,” Lucifer ignores Dean entirely, seeming almost to have forgotten the Heran prince’s presence. “But, what I hadn’t realised was that with me gone, Michael would _have_ to stay in Evadne, to carry out his duty and become an Archangel, and all because my father needed a child to remain and carry out his duties as he became increasingly useless with grief—our younger brother, Gabriel, being far too young to rule—less than a decade old, at this point. And Anna, of course, being a new-born child, was incapable of thought and reason, let alone ruling a Kingdom.

“So, Michael, ever the obedient son, had to leave his Human and rule over the three Kingdoms of Angels—and know that as he ruled, the Human who had borne this petty infatuation inside of him was so quickly aging, dying and withering, as all Humans do. It’s rather funny how things work out, isn’t it?”

Dean scowls.

“Hilarious.”

“But I’m not done yet, you know. I don’t doubt you’re wondering where I—as my twin would probably put it—‘stormed off’, to. Well, as it turns out, the Demons were having something of a civil war at this time, and needed someone to patch things over—someone, that is, to rule them.”

“So what, I’m looking at the Demon King, right now?” Dean scowls. “Somehow I doubt the Demons would be that eager to accept an Angel as their Sovereign, sorry.”

“There was some trouble to begin with, undeniably,” Lucifer admits, carelessly turning and examining the expanse city outside the window, below them. His hands rest, like some kind of entitled transgression, on the windowsill. “But I soon won over a band of loyal followers and eventually came to the throne of the Demons. Unsurprisingly, they wanted a route towards—and entry to—the Angels’ Kingdoms. And I wanted my rightful place on the thrones of my ancestors… and so we arranged an attack.”

“But you attacked _Hera,_ not—”

“I’m getting to that. You see, Dean, I actually needed _your brother—”_

“You’re not getting to Sammy—”

“Oh please, Dean—if I wanted to do that, now, I’d already be by his side, possibly having this very same conversation with _him_ ,” Lucifer laughs. The sound is cold and flat and hard against Dean’s ears. “No, I have other things on my mind, today. But Dean, I don’t think you understand—you’re quite the interesting specimen—you see, your brother, Sam— _he_ was meant to be King. He was meant to be the ‘Boy King’; he was supposed to rule over this Kingdom as little more than a child after the untimely death of his father—and I had so little idea of where _you’d_ fit into all of this.”

“What? _I’m_ the oldest.” Dean scowls. _“I’m_ meant to be King—what do you—”

“The Angels, you see, had this pitiful idea of starting a Kingdom long ago, which united Angels, Demons and Humans, which ended all the wars between the three races. That’s what this engagement is _really_ for. Of course, Castiel is entirely aware of it. The Kingdom was designed and built, eons ago, to set that odd little plan into motion. Michael attempted it—years ago, when his attentions were stolen by one of you odd little creatures—and he is attempting to do it now. With you and Castiel. You are only pawns in my brother’s game. You more so than Castiel, no doubt.”

None of this is making any sense to Dean. He glares at the Angel while fear and confusion continue to swirl murkily inside his gut.

“That still doesn’t explain—”

“Are you a religious man, Dean? Do you believe in the words prophets have to say? I suppose there’s little point in asking—even if you were, your religion is entirely different to that of the Angels. But Michael is adamantly religious. Militantly so. Steadfast in his faith. As am I, though in quite a different way—he believes that God made the Humans to be watched over by the Angels— _I_ believe you were made to be subordinate. You _and_ the Demons.”

“Do _they_ know that’s how you feel?”

“Of course not,” Lucifer smirks. “But I attempted your attack on Hera with them because I needed your brother.”

“Why?”

“He was the one who was supposed to be able to stop—and indeed, _start_ all this.”

“Start what?” Dean frowns.

“The war to end all wars. The war which would cause Angels to rise triumphant, and me to return to my brother’s side.”

“Do you really think Michael would want that? After you abandoned him?” Dean scowls.

“Oh, I forgot to mention—I didn’t in fact _leave._ My father banished me first, and _then_ I fled—my father banished me for disagreeing with him—for stating my beliefs on the natural order, on the abomination that was Michael falling in love with a Human—he cast me out. His own son. His _favourite._ Now tell me, does the punishment fit the crime? Especially when I was right?”

“You weren’t right—”

“Look at you, Dean. Look at all of you. Humanity is a mess. Look at your Earthly realms—can you honestly tell me you know what you’re doing? That you people are _good?”_

“We’re not—”

“Don’t answer back, child, it’s not polite. Anyway, to continue, I sent one of those closest to me—Azazel, his name is—to take your brother, Samuel—but your fool of a mother got in the way, and had to be disposed of.”

 _“Disposed of?!”_ Dean repeats, spitting his words out, sudden anger and disgust clouding both his vision and his mind.

“Yes,” Lucifer replies, dispassionately. “Azazel was interrupted, and so failed his task. And as I had to leave for Evadne, I didn’t have the time to rectify his mistake.”

“You said we met—”

“I did,” Lucifer nods. “Well, ‘met’ here being a word used in a rather liberal fashion. You saw me, and I saw you—do you remember? It was just at the moment when your mother burned.”

Dean frowns and shakes his head, the Angel’s words don’t make any sense—his mother _burned?!_ He thinks he’s going to be sick, he can’t remember any of this, and yet in a dirty, horrible way, he _can_.

“I would’ve remembered seeing an Angel,” He shakes his head again.

“I suppose you would have, yes.” Lucifer’s lips twitch upwards once more, and he hums thoughtfully. “Well, you saw me just as I was taking flight. I would’ve appeared to you, as some kind of bright white smoke. Do you remember that?”

Something familiar twists in Dean’s gut; and a memory stirs dimly in his mind. Dean frowns and nods.

“Yes.”

“That was me,” Lucifer leers.

“And that’s how Angels look when they fly?”

“It is, indeed,” The Angel confirms. “I flew to Evadne—Michael, at the time, was in fact the Archangel of Tyrzah, but was summoned to Evadne by my father as soon as he realised an attack was taking place. And my father, too cowardly to do the job himself, commanded Michael to fight me. And my brother, ever the obedient son, obliged him.”

“And he won?”

“He didn’t kill me, so I’d like to count it as a draw,” Lucifer shrugs coolly, but something flickers behind his eyes that gives away something more resentful and bitter than the Angel’s calm exterior probably intends.

Dean’s head is pounding with everything he has just learnt. It feels like a betrayal—it feels like more of a betrayal than it did when he _first_ decided he didn’t trust the Angels.

“That still doesn’t answer why you’re here now. And why you’re waiting outside my father’s chambers.”

“I’m getting onto that, Prince,” Lucifer sighs, as though speaking with Dean is more of a chore than anything else. “You do _so_ remind me of Michael, you know.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s certainly not a compliment, if that’s what you were wondering,” The Angel smirks slightly. “After my— _defeat—”_ Lucifer’s lip curls. “I returned to the Demon Kingdoms. I planned. For years, I planned of my reinstatement in my rightful place, continued in the war with your father to occupy my time, though more as a game, than anything else—and then I learnt of my youngest brother and his Human sweetheart—obedient to an absent father, loyal to a dead mother— _so_ like Michael—and I learnt that the two of you were to be betrothed to one another. And, for possibly the first time, Dean, I actually _considered_ you.

“Where I had seen you as so insignificant, before—believing that you would die in war or some other unfortunate incident, meaning that your brother would rise to the throne of Hera, as he is destined—”

 _“What?!”_ Dean spits. Lucifer ignores him.

“—yet the thing is, Dean, you just didn’t _die._ And believe me, I _tried_ to kill you—really and truly. So I took a step back; I reconsidered. I began to realise just how wonderfully you fitted into things. And Dean, I am _so_ sorry for ever _dreaming_ of overlooking you. You, Dean, are the final piece in my plan.”

“What the fuck—”

“You’ll find out,” Lucifer smirks. “Soon, I expect. Very soon, in fact. But for now, I have other things on my mind.” He turns and begins to walk away from Dean, and Dean lunges towards him—an impossibly foolish move; he has no weapons, no armour, no escape. Lucifer spins round, as though he had anticipated this; and catches both of Dean’s arms with as much ease as he would if he were stopping a toddler in their tracks. “Watch out, Dean,” He sneers. “A _brave_ fool is still indeed a fool—he’s simply more likely to die.”

“Why are you here?” Dean tries to stop himself from trembling, but it’s to little or no avail.

“To set things into motion, Prince Dean,” Lucifer smiles. “To push over the first tile in the trail of dominos. Before I go, I would simply like to reassure you that _no,_ Castiel does not love you—well, how could he?” Lucifer laughs drolly, in Dean’s ear. This isn’t true, Dean knows it; it _can’t_ be true. “Angels cannot love Humans, Dean. And Castiel never _will_.”

“You liar!”

“You’re a _pawn_ Dean—in both the game of my brother, and in my own chess set—and I’m sure that Castiel is aware of it. I can’t wait to put you into play. I’ll see you very soon, I believe. But for now, your father has got a deal to uphold.”

Dean wants to ask what the _fuck_ Lucifer is talking about, but the Angel has disappeared, and he spins around, his heart pounding, before white light surrounds his vision and Lucifer’s voice echoes in his ears.

 _“Watch, Dean,”_ It speaks softly, and the ground changes beneath Dean’s feet, the walls of the castle spin and morph into something new, Dean feels giddy and sick. _“Watch what Castiel_ really _thinks of you.”_

Sitting in a wheelhouse. Castiel, younger than Dean has seen him for years, is sitting in a wheelhouse, looking miserable.

“Cas?” Dean calls, but the Angel cannot hear him, and his features are unchanged; sloped down by fatigue and, it would seem, reluctance. Dean’s voice is oddly muffled in his ears, as though he is speaking underwater or through a storm.

“Do I have to do this, brother?” Castiel asks. He sounds childish and petulant.

Dean realised Michael is sat opposite the young Angel.

“Yes, Castiel. It is necessary.”

“But _why?”_

“You may like the boy.”

“I will _never_ like the boy,” Castiel’s nose wrinkles. “He’s a _Human._ How could I?”

“I have asked you to do this, brother—do it.”

“But why?”

Michael appears frustrated. His wings bristle.

“Because of what has been written. And so that we may end the Demon war.”

“You think that’s proof of Cas not loving me?” Dean asks, shouting the words up into the air, hoping that Lucifer will hear them. “I didn’t want to marry him first, either, you know!”

But there is no reply. The vision changes, now Dean is standing in one of the chambers in Hera, a ghost, an apparition, intruding on a world that is being forced upon him.

Castiel storms into the chambers.

 _“Castiel!”_ Anna greets, seated on the end of a bed, which is covered with bright orange sheets that seem almost on fire, the colour of the sun. Michael is stood opposite her, arms folded. _“We’ve been waiting for you!”_ She exclaims, standing up. _“How were your introductions with the young Prince?”_

Though they speak in Enochian, Lucifer whispers translations of the words into Dean’s ears so that it feels as though insects are flitting about his face and rustling their wings and clicking their jaws unpleasantly all about him.

Castiel scowls at nothing in particular and sits down onto his bed, pinching the fabric of the sheets, rough with thick threads of gold, between his fingertips in frustration.

 _“…They didn’t go well, then?”_ His sister asks cautiously, moving softly over to him and sitting slowly back down onto the bed, sinking slightly into the mattress. Castiel looks away.

 _“I said that he’d hate me.”_ Castiel mumbles, still staring at the ground. Anna sighs next to him, Michael’s composure shifts somewhat. He takes a step towards Castiel and his sister, standing in sunlight beaming in from an open window.

_“He doesn’t hate you, I’m sure of it—”_

_“He does.”_ Castiel replies, looking up at Anna. Her deep, ruby wings twitch slightly as she frowns thoughtfully at him. _“He does.”_ Castiel repeats. He clenches his fists tightly around the sheets he hadn’t realised he’s been holding. _“And if he doesn’t, then_ I _hate_ him.”

Michael frowns from where he stands above them; but it is restrained, like he wants to comment, but is reminding himself not to.

 _“And the engagement—?”_ Michael asks, after a lengthy, awkward pause. Castiel looks up at his oldest brother. All three of them frown sombrely

 _“I don’t want to.”_ Castiel mumbles, his voice very small.

 _“Okay.”_ Michael nods, and that’s all he says. His tone is flat and emotionless, his expression blank.

 _“I won’t do it,”_ Castiel states. _“He is a foul creature.”_

 _“Anael,”_ Michael says, suddenly and sharply. Anna snaps her head up to her brother, as though she is being called to attention, and Michael’s gaze is settled on her completely now, never once does he flit his eyes back over to Castiel. _“I think it would be best if we continued discussing those earlier matters in my quarters.”_ He pauses. _“Would that be a problem?”_

 _“No, Michael.”_ Anna bows her head slightly. Castiel bites at his lip, averting his gaze. _“I’ll be there in just a moment.”_

Michael nods curtly and exits, and once more the memory shifts.

Now they are at the first feast Dean had with Castiel.

Castiel has rushed over to Michael and Dean’s father, and speaks to Michael in Enochian: again, it is translated for Dean.

_“I will marry him if what you said is true. Will I really come to rule a new kingdom, all of my own?”_

_“Truly,”_ Michael nods. _“It will be yours: you will be honoured above all other Angels for bringing peace to the Heavenly and the Earthly Realms.”_

Something greedy glimmers in Castiel’s eyes.

_“Then I will do it.”_

The memory changes again, Dean stands, aghast, heart breaking inside the cave of his chest as Castiel sits in a new room: one unfamiliar, with white flooring and bright pale sunlight.

 _“I cannot_ stand _to see him again,”_ Castiel rolls his eyes bitterly. _“Is it not enough that I will have to marry him, one day?”_

 _“He is being crowned, brother,”_ Michael reasons, kneeling in front of Castiel. _“And it will not be so bad.”_

 _“You’re not the one who has to talk to him. You’re not the one who has to_ kiss _him.”_

Michael sighs and stands.

 _“You will be at the crowning of Dean Winchester as Prince of Hera,”_ He states with finality. _“This is not a matter up for debate.”_

The memory changes again; Dean’s chest stings in hollow, strange pangs.

They are in the white room again, but now Castiel is older, and looks more frustrated than ever.

 _“You don’t understand!”_ He shouts. _“You could never understand!”_

_“Brother—”_

_“No! I will not see him in some wretched state!”_

Dean realises with a feeling of icy dread that Castiel is speaking of the time that Dean was left, nearly dead, after fighting in the Demon war.

_“He will not be—”_

_“He has proven himself a useless coward, need I go see him to confirm this?”_

“This isn’t true!” Dean bellows. “It can’t be true! Cas wouldn’t _say_ that! He loves me! He said it!”

“Yes,” Lucifer agrees in his ears, the words rattling around his skull, “he _said_ it. But what does that mean? What does that mean to an Angel who trades in words?”

And the memory shifts again. Dean’s skull feels as though it is being rummaged through, and something is pulled from it.

Now, he realises, flushing furiously, utterly mortified, they are in Dean’s quarters the night he and Castiel first did anything more than kiss.

Castiel is kissing at Dean’s back, just as he did, that night—but now that Dean can see his face, he can see that the Angel’s eyes are wide open, fierce with disgust. His lip curls, repulsed, against Dean’s skin, mottled by scars. The memory makes them look even uglier than Dean ever could have realised they were.

The memory changes again. Castiel sits in the wheelhouse with his brother; they leave Hera.

_“Well, that wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”_

Castiel’s lip curls yet again.

_“You didn’t have to sleep with him.”_

_“You will be married to him, Castiel,”_ Michael reminds. Lucifer hisses the translations of the Enochian in Dean’s ear.

 _“Yes—but I could not stand to fuck the boy;”_ Castiel frowns, troubled, _“only use his mouth and hands. How will I be able to survive, marrying him? He moves like a whore, moans like one beneath me. The first night of our stay he_ begged _me to fuck him, but I managed to refuse and persuade him it was for his own good that I didn’t—”_

“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” Dean cries out, begging, collapsing onto the ground. He can feel the cold stone floor of Hera against his knees. His hands are on his head, tearing at his hair. “Please! No more! No more!”

“Because I am merciful,” Lucifer’s voice rings softly in his head, and almost sounds _kind,_ now—especially after the cruelty of Castiel’s words. “I will show you no more.”

Castiel, Castiel—how? _Why_? Dean’s insides are ash: he is worth nothing—the one he thought loved him, truly, deeply; does not, never did. It was a game. It was all a game, a trick made at Dean’s expense.

For several agonised minutes, Dean’s mind feels as though it has been pierced by a thousand white hot daggers. There is a clanging of bells in his head that begin to peel so loudly it feels as though they have stretched over his skull and are tightening, ever tightening.

Finally, he realises where he is—staggers upright—riddled with confusion and sorrow and heartache and absolute disbelief—Lucifer is gone. A bright light flashes out of the open window, and black smoke appears behind his father’s door—Dean hears cries of pain—no, _agony._ His nerves splinter. His heart rises up into his throat.

“John?” He calls out. “Father?!” He sprints to the door and flings it open—the guards have gone; they’ve disappeared, Dean can’t think where—and the King is lying back on his bed—a window is open, and Dean sees the black smoke flit out of it, but he barely has time to register, before he rushes over to the bed and kneels beside his father, heart hammering and breaking and crying out in his throat.

“Your Majesty—John—Father—Papa? Papa?” He pleads. “Are you okay?”

“I’m—” John gasps—he grabs Dean’s hand so tightly Dean is afraid he hears some of his bones cracking. “—Dean—”

“Father—what’s happening—I don’t—”

Dean’s father shakes his head.

“It’ll all make sense—” He gasps out. “Soon—soon—I’m sorry—soon—”

“What do you mean?” Dean is speaking frantically, he can hear his own blood in his ears and he thinks his heart has risen to his throat.

“You know,” John croaks, “when you were a kid, and I’d come back from a battle—I’d have seen some things—I’d be haunted by them… You know what war can be like, son.”

Blood has eked out from John’s stomach and stains the sheets. More dribbles from the king’s mouth onto his chin.

“You know better than anyone. But you’d put your hand on my shoulder, and look me in the eye and—” Dean’s father is crying, and these aren’t like any of the tears Dean has seen before, and it scares him. It terrifies him. “—And you’d say, ‘ _it’s okay, Papa.’”_ He chokes back more tears, and clutches at Dean’s hand. “—Dean, I’m sorry.”

“What?” Dean is crying too, now, he can barely see or hear, and his father’s grip on his hand is almost painful, but it’s waning, waning, and Dean wishes with all his heart it wasn’t. This isn’t real, it can’t be real; it must be a nightmare and Dean must be dreaming—it’s just another one of his bad dreams; “Father? Papa—”

“I should’ve been saying that to you.” John’s voice breaks as he speaks, and he pulls a face like he’s trying to hold back his own tears, but it only makes things worse. “When we lost your mom—I kind of—I kind of shut off. And I’m sorry—I put too much on your shoulders, I made you grow up, too fast—I wasn’t the father I should’ve been—I was never there for you enough—and you’ve—” His breaths are becoming laboured, and Dean is sobbing now, he is _sobbing_ and his father is dying in front of him. “—You took care of Sammy, and of me—I just want you to know—” He squeezes Dean’s hand again, and it spikes with pain at the ferocity of John’s grip, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for everything—I am _so_ proud of you.”

“Father, I don’t understand—”

John pulls Dean close and whispers something in his ear—Sammy bursts into the room—and Dean can’t understand, it doesn’t make sense, but his father has pushed Dean back again. And Sam is shouting in his ear, asking Dean what’s happened, shaking Dean, desperately, but Dean can barely register his brother.

“You’re going to make a great king, Dean.” John smiles, but then it falters, and he slips back, his grip falling lax, and Dean is sobbing all over again, and Sammy is beside him; and the world is no longer grey, just a swirling mess of darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Total disaster. Stay tuned! It only gets worse.
> 
> (happy ending, I promise!)
> 
> Please comment/give feedback! If you haven't, it'd be totally amazing if you could recommend this fic to friends. Hope you enjoyed :)


	17. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHIT CONTINUES TO HIT THE FAN

 

**“The truth," he says, "is a painful reminder of why I prefer to live among the lies.”**

**― Tahereh Mafi, Unravel Me**

 

 

Castiel wakes up with a bubbling, nervous anticipation dancing at the edges of his insides. There is only one thing that he is looking forward to, today—not the feast his siblings have prepared nor the music nor the giftgiving. Finally he’ll be getting the truth out of his brother. He doesn’t know where to start, really—the stack of unanswered questions has piled so high over the years that finding a place to begin will be a difficult task enough—and prioritising all of them in order of what he wants to find out the _most_ will be just as trying.

He wracks his brain as he lies in his bed, staring up at the pale, gracefully decorated ceiling of his room. What is it he most wants to know? What secrets has Michael kept the greatest amount of time—and which questions left unanswered have plagued Castiel for the longest? Perhaps Michael’s refusal to talk about his twin in any real detail? The specifics of what happened that night Lucifer returned—and how this was connected to the attack on Hera?

And why had Michael been so angry the day that they had left after the Angels’ first visit to Hera?

Castiel notes distractedly that he should perhaps write some of this down. He doesn’t want to forget any of his questions for Michael. He wants to know _everything_ that he has been deprived of for so many years _._

He glances out of his window, wondering what the time is. The sun has barely risen—it’s very early in the morning; so will be hours before Castiel will be able to have _any_ of his questions answered, which is a horribly frustrating thought. He wonders if Gabriel and Anna will visit today, or if they will have to remain in their own Kingdoms and wish Castiel a happy birthday another time.

Michael passed a decree early into his reign that requires all the head Archangels of each Kingdom to remain in their homes at all times unless they have placed another to take charge during their absence—as well as this, they must also be permitted to leave by Michael. It’s a frustrating law, and one that has prevented Castiel from seeing his other siblings as much as he would like—and he thinks he may even raise this with Michael today and ask why it is his oldest brother passed this most inconvenient ruling in the first place.

Castiel whittles away the next few hours by poring over Dean’s letters to him—he hasn’t told Dean this, but he’s kept every one of them. They write often, and in the hours where Castiel finds himself pining for the Human’s presence, they hold something of a comfort. He wonders if Dean has done the same with _his_ letters.

Each time Castiel is gone from Hera, he finds himself missing Dean more and more. He grows paranoid that Dean’s affections for him wane whenever Castiel is not around—that Dean will find someone new to place his attentions on; and the thought makes a bitter and jealous unhappiness curl inside his heart. Does Dean think of Castiel often? Did he mean everything he said to the Angel on his last visit to Hera? Would he still mean it if he said it, now?

Over the stay, Dean opened himself life a flower in the morning to Castiel, where to begin with he had been so closed and withdrawn. Castiel doesn’t want to return to Hera to find that Dean has reverted to that guarded and stony form of himself again.

His letters remain uninhibited and honest, however, where before Castiel could feel them growing more and more impersonal—and although Dean still writes as though he has a great deal weighing on his mind, he tells Castiel everything and he still speaks warmly to the Angel.

Castiel picks up the last letter he received from Dean—he first read it a few mere days ago; Dean sent it early for his birthday to make sure it arrived with time to spare—but Castiel didn’t bother waiting before he opened it. He couldn’t.

Castiel smiles at the letter. He strokes the parchment with the pad of his thumb. Dean’s words are a warm reassurance that Dean still thinks of Castiel; that Castiel means _something_ to him, whatever that could be. The Angel wonders why it is he feels so much uncertainty when thinking of Dean. He and Dean’s affair has been filled with uncertainty—both in their feelings toward each other and in what their future together may hold. At least the pair know for certain now that they do _have_ a future together. This thought sends happy butterflies reeling through Castiel’s system.

A knock on Castiel’s door tells the young Angel that he’s managed to pass away the significant stretch of time; and he expects to see a servant peep around the frame, informing him of breakfast—and so he is happily surprised to see Michael there, instead.

 _“Happy birthday, Castiel.”_ Michael smiles, although it doesn’t look at all convincing to Castiel. The High King takes a poorly disguised shuddering breath. _“What—what do you want to do, today? I’ve had a feast prepared for your dinner, and guests, and—”_ He falters, obviously nervous. _“But what would you do between now and then?”_

It’s a needless question, Castiel thinks, puzzled; because both of them _know_ what Castiel wants to do—or rather, what he wants his brother to tell him, and he says as much to Michael.

 _“I think you already know.”_ He frowns at his brother, and Michael sighs and nods his head.

 _“Yes, of course.”_ He looks down. _“This may well ruin your birthday but…”_ He trails of awkwardly, apparently giving up on the last of his excuses. _“If it’s what you want… Shall we—”_ He gestures to Castiel’s bed, _“It’s just—it’s going to take a while.”_

Castiel nods and states that this isn’t a problem, and the two of them sit down at the edge of Castiel’s bed. Michael’s hands seem to be shaking slightly, and Castiel feels a coil of guilt worm its way up into his heart at the thought that he is causing all of his brother’s nervousness and remorse.

_“Michael, you don’t have to do this if—”_

_“No, Castiel.”_ Michael shakes his head quickly, firmly. _“I do. No more excuses. You deserve the truth. This hasn’t been fair on you.”_

Castiel looks down.

_“But you—”_

_“Please don’t try to dissuade me from doing this,”_ Michael laughs, although it seems rather forced, _“Because I might just end up listening to you—and you don’t deserve that. It would be cowardly of me. Very much so.”_ He looks down again. _“I’ve already been enough of a coward, for this lifetime.”_

_“I’m sure you—”_

_“No, Castiel.”_ Michael says, gently but firmly. _“I’ve put this off for long enough. Now, where do you want to start?”_

Castiel pauses and bites his lip.

 _“I don’t know.”_ He replies honestly. _“I’ve got so many questions—do you think you could just start from the very beginning?”_

Michael sighs and rubs his face with the flat of his palm.

 _“The beginning is…”_ He huffs out a despondent breath. _“…Subjective.”_ Castiel frowns, confused by his brother’s words. _“There are things… far back, at the_ very _beginning of all things… that you certainly deserve to hear. But—”_

 _“From the beginning, with you and Lucifer.”_ Castiel offers. Michael looks a little more hopeless.

 _“It’s difficult, because there’s so much—and it will all make sense, I hope, but—Okay,”_ He nods, _“From the beginning._ That _beginning.”_

Castiel realises that he’s been holding his breath.

 _“Perhaps I should start off by apologising.”_ Michael sighs. _“For everything I have, and have not done, so far—and for everything I am about to tell you. I don’t expect you’ll like it. I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought far less of me, as a result. In fact, it’s almost a guarantee that you will, but…”_

 _“It’s fine.”_ Castiel attempts to brush aside—he feels impatient and desperate to know all that has been withheld from him, and doesn’t want Michael slowing things down with apologies; no matter how guilty his brother feels.

 _“Alright,”_ A tense, baited breath is let out, though Castiel doesn’t know if it comes from him or his brother. _“As you know, Castiel, I had a twin, named Lucifer, once.”_ Michael swallows, like even saying this is difficult. _“Well, that’s not technically true—I mean, I had led you to believe that I had killed him when our father commanded me to do so, fifteen years ago; which is not true. Whether or not you believed that is none of my concern, right now—you probably didn’t, I expect, you’re really too perceptive to simply… Well, it was a lie, anyway. I tried not to tell you lies, but in avoiding telling you the truth—or even telling you half-truths, I’m sure I lied to you in the process more times than I would care to admit. Which I apologise for, on top of everything else.”_

Castiel wants to tell his brother that he doesn’t care; that he just wants to hear the truth; that he doesn’t want to have to wait for any longer, for it.

Michael’s voice is trembling in a way that Castiel has never seen before.

 _“For all of our childhood, Lucifer and I had been very close. More than close. We had fought in war together; we had trained for battle together, laughed together, we told one-another everything, we shared a room, had our meals and lessons together—he was my morning star, and I was his. We were as close as I believe brothers_ can _be. I would have died for him, and perhaps he would have done the same for me, once…_

 _“But then—when I was around your age, Castiel—perhaps a little younger—I met a Human for the first time. Well, I met several—but none of the rest seemed to matter half as much. There was one in particular—one—”_ Michael bites his lip. _“I had never been in love, before, Castiel. It was like—coming home. Or standing outside in a storm. I didn’t… I couldn’t understand it at all, and it was so alien and new to me, but_ wonderful, _wonderfully confusing and bright as the dawn, and I could barely see anyone else.”_

Castiel feels himself frown in confusion.

 _“I had never been in love, before.”_ Michael repeats. His eyes look lost and distant. _“It was new—and magnificent—and I never wanted it to end. But Angels and Humans—”_ Michael sighs. _“It is difficult for our paths to cross, let alone run alongside each other. I don’t know if you have thought of this, Castiel, when considering Dean, but—”_

_“When I make my decision, when I turn twenty-one, I will either chose a mortal life and live it out with him; or the life of an Angel—of which Dean’s life will be only a fraction—where Dean will die, early in my life, and I will have to spend the rest of my existence alone.”_

Michael nods.

 _“That’s essentially what it involves, yes, Castiel.”_ He looks downcast. _“I’m sorry for putting you in that situation—it was cruel of me—”_

 _“I wouldn’t change it, given the choice,”_ Castiel shrugs. _“I wouldn’t go back. And I certainly don’t regret meeting him.”_

Michael’s expression softens.

 _“I’m glad,”_ He says quietly. _“Anyway, I was faced with that choice—and as my twenty-first birthday drew nearer and nearer; I grew more certain of what my answer was going to be. I wanted to choose my Human—I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, at whatever cost. I asked him to marry me—”_ He looks down, his voice trembling. His voice weighs so heavy that if the sound were dropped into the ocean, it would sink to its depths before another word could be spoken. _“—And they said yes. And I was—I was so happy. I told Lucifer, on the eve of our birthday, what my decision was to be, who it was I wished to spend the rest of my life with._

 _“Lucifer—Lucifer had never approved of my affections for Humans. Or, this Human, in particular. And he didn’t approve then, either. He was furious—he saw it as a_ betrayal _—he had always believed Angels to be far superior to Humans… and in that moment he believed it more than ever. He had also always believed that choosing a mortal—a Human life—was something of an abomination. And I suppose—well—it’s certainly not_ natural, _Castiel.”_ Michael sighs again, rubbing his face with his hands.

 _“How so?”_ Castiel asks, frowning. Michael looks up, his expression slightly despondent.

 _“There is so much I have not told you,”_ He groans.

 _“Then tell me now,”_ Castiel’s voice is firmer than he would have expected it to be.

Michael sighs again.

 _“When the decision is made—we choose between a Human and an Angel life—and if we choose that of a Human, everything that was once Angel is cast away. Our powers, our ability of flight… Our wings stay, but only as ornaments, relics of what we once were and could have become—and of course, our lifespan is cut. Significantly so. And—the way that we do this, Castiel—we rip out our grace. We carve it out of our necks and fall from everything most Angels define themselves as. Everything that makes an Angel just so. And Lucifer—he thought of this as an atrocity. He told me as much—he told me far more than this—and we’d never before_ fought _with one another… But we fought then. He told me I was choosing my Human over him, that I was betraying him, and with him, the rest of the Angels._

 _“Livid, he went to father and demanded that he made me see sense—but I had already informed our parents of my decision, and…”_ Here, Michael falters again, his chest stuttering as though with regret and thoughtfulness, and, Castiel realises with another flash of exasperation, another secret. _“While it had saddened father, for he knew that he would outlive their own son—a terrible thing for any parent to do, Castiel—he had told me that he respected my decision—that he respected me for making it. And when Lucifer found this out; he grew angrier—because I had not told him of my choice first, because our parents were siding with me instead of him—and as things escalated further and further, Lucifer struck our mother._

_“Father was livid—and he demanded that Lucifer be taken to the dungeons and accept my decision—but Lucifer refused to do either. He said that he was being abandoned—both by me, and by father for ordering him to imprisonment—and he said that to accept that I would live as a Human would kill him. And so he left the Kingdom—he left saying that just as he was abandoned, so he would also abandon us—he said we were casting him out, anyway._

_“And so, with Lucifer gone, and my father distraught, I couldn’t stay with my Human. I could no longer be with the one I loved. Lucifer had sworn that he would return and take back that which had been taken from him—none of us had known exactly what he had meant, but we had assumed that it was a threat—and so I was unable to leave my post, with my father’s mental health left so unstable by his losses… One of the two of us would’ve had to become the High King—and after Lucifer left, it was clear that it would have to be me to take the thrown. I never wanted any of this. Never.”_

Michael gestures bitterly, vaguely, to the room around them.

 _“I wanted—I always wanted—I wanted to be with the one whom I loved. I didn’t care for an Angel life, nor did I care for ruling_ any _Kingdom—but I couldn’t have anything that I had once dreamed of, no—”_ Michael laughs, but it is cracked and rough as soil in the desert. _“Well. You know how lovers can be. Sweet talk of nothing at all, and dreaming, and—I lost that, in a moment. And it broke me, little brother. It broke me. My Human died of course, a handful of wretched decades later, as all Humans do. Our father became more withdrawn as the centuries passed, and I was forced to continue taking over many of his responsibilities—until you were born.”_ Michael’s lips twitch upwards, and his eyes graze back over to Castiel. Happiness, brief and glimmering, that had been swallowed up by the shadow of melancholy and grief glimmers gently on his face like the promise of dawn. _“You were a promise of something—we could all tell—something new and hopeful. But then, days later, your mother died, and father became worse than ever. I kept myself—since the day Lucifer left, I have done so—busy with my duties, to keep myself from being overcome by grief. But father had so few duties left by the time Lucifer returned, that it was almost too much for him, I think—he couldn’t keep busy or withdraw from his emotions; and they overpowered him._

 _“And, on the night that Lucifer returned, father summoned me to the castle, to Evadne, to attempt to defeat Lucifer. And I tried to do as I was told—but—I could only go as far as to beat him in combat. Not kill him—never—”_ Michael breaks off. _“I wasn’t strong enough for that. And, it turned out, in the time that he had been absent from the Heavenly Realms, Lucifer had been creating an army of his own. He had joined forces with the Demons—won his position as their leader—and his return had been an attempt to take over the Angel Kingdoms, to kill those who would not stand by him, and fill in those newly absent positions with his Demons._

_“And he planned to make Humanity bow to Angels, just as he believed they should. After defeating him, I told Lucifer that he could leave, or return, and face only a small punishment as penance for his crimes. But he refused, and left, again. I think he was more bitter than he ever was before, as a result of that day. And shortly after that, more overridden with grief than in all those years previous, our father died.”_

_“And you became High King.”_ Castiel nods.

 _“Yes,”_ Michael sighed. _“And I made the decree—the decree requiring Archangels to remain at their posts, unless permitted otherwise—because—I hadn’t remained at mine, the night Lucifer returned.”_

 _“That’s because father had called you back to Evadne.”_ Castiel frowns slightly.

 _“No,”_ Michael shakes his head, _“He called me to help when Lucifer reached the palace. I hadn’t been in the Heavenly Realms, before this moment. I had abandoned my post, because of my own ridiculous sentimentality—which had left the Angels weaker as a direct result.”_

 _“Where were you, if you were not in Tyrzah?”_ Castiel asks.

 _“I was in the Earthly Realms—”_ Michael sighs, looking up at Castiel’s ceiling. _“—visiting the one I had once called love.”_

 _“I thought you said your Human had died?”_ Castiel frowns.

 _“I was visiting his grave.”_ Michael’s wings twitch, slightly. He doesn’t speak for a moment, and then his right hand clenches into a fist. His eyes have turned glassy, yet now something hard and bitter slides across their surface. _“As I said; it was a ridiculous and needless show of sentimentality—it was my fault Lucifer was so nearly able to kill our father—it is my fault he is still alive, and it is my fault our father is dead.”_

_“It’s not your fault father died—”_

_“I_ lied _to father!”_ Michael snaps, looking up to Castiel, again. _“I informed him that I had killed Lucifer, as had been ordered, and the grief killed him!”_

_“He shouldn’t have asked if he could not have lived with the consequen—”_

_“It is_ my _fault, Castiel.”_ Michael bites. His hands are still set in tight, hard, balls of fists. _“All of it!”_ He sighs after this outburst, calming himself, breathing deeply for a few, pained moments. Thunder rumbles over distant mountains. His voice is quieter, softer—except more dejected, too—when he speaks again. _“And we’ve barely scratched the surface, believe it or not—I have so much more that I still need to tell you,”_ Michael rubs his face, tiredly, _“but first of all, do you have any questions?”_

Castiel doesn’t know what to say.

 _“Yes, I’m sure I do—”_ He stammers. Much of what he had always suspected has turned out to be true—but so many things have only just been revealed to him; and they form a swirling fog in his mind that he finds it impossible to sift through—so many nuances in the way that Michael phrased things mean that Castiel suspects there is still _more_ to the story, a thought which makes him groan internally with both frustration and worry. He cannot come to any conclusions; because everything is too much of a blur—all of this has been said to him, far too quickly, and he can’t sort through what he thinks of _any_ of it. _“The Demon attack on Hera—”_ He starts, looking back up at his brother, _“Was that anything to do with Lucifer’s return?”_

Michael’s face sets with something new, and he nods.

_“Yes, we believe it was related to that. Lucifer revealed very little of his intentions that night; but it became clear that he had purposes for the younger of the Winchester brothers, and we remain unsure as to what those were—and, if he still holds this interest.”_

_“Sam?”_ Castiel asks, frowning. _“What did he want Sam, for?”_

 _“We don’t know.”_ Michael repeats. _“We suspect…”_ He cuts himself off mournfully. _“I’ll tell you more of that later, when we come around to it. He said very little to me that night—even when I offered that he could return to our home—he distanced himself. As an Angel should.”_

_“And you believe that he’s still alive? And active?”_

_“As far as I know.”_ Michael confirms. _“Remember that there was a time when Lucifer and myself knew each other, the best of anyone. All the tactics of the Demons in their war with Hera—I can see him in them. He is reflected through their actions. Now, as for_ why _he went through Hera, that night—Hera lies as a clear pathway through the Earthly Kingdoms, to the Heavenly Realms, which would also partially explain Lucifer’s decision. But he had business there, too; we’re certain of this. As I said, business with Samuel. We don’t precisely know it’s nature, only that it didn’t succeed, and that one of his Demon accessories was the one to attempt to carry it out—he ended up killing the Queen, Mary Winchester, but failing with whatever it was he was attempting with Samuel.”_

_“So is that the real reason I became engaged to Dean? As some kind of protection, for the Winchester brothers? In case Lucifer attempted an attack on Hera, again?”_

_“No,”_ Michael shakes his head. _“Or, not entirely. I still haven’t told you everything. But Castiel,”_ He sighs, _“it’s so complicated.”_

 _“I’m clever,”_ Castiel frowns, _“and I want to know the truth, so tell me. Tell me everything.”_

Michael breathes for a few moments, before starting again.

 _“For a long time, there has been an Angel plan—to unite all Three Nations, to join together the Nine Kingdoms of Althalia, to bring an end to the constant fighting and unrest—and there was to be a Kingdom to do all of this—a new Kingdom—where all three races would live together in peace; and it would embody this new reconciliation between the three beings. Its boundaries were set, and cities built—but it needed someone to rule it—and nobody could be found at the time—this was_ millennia _ago, Castiel—and as soon as I found out; a few months before I turned twenty-one, which was so many great ages later, I thought of my Human. I thought of how we could live there together; of how this unity could be brought about through us._

 _“It was a vain and proud dream of me to yearn after; but I believed myself capable of the task. Of course, after all that happened with Lucifer, none of this plan came to any fruition, yet again. I began to believe that it was not Abra’s will to have such peace and harmony amongst all of her children—though much of such a concept, the idea of Angels, Humans and Demons living together in peace, had been prophesied by the Great Teacher, Bataivah… I still began to believe it to be hopeless. But then you were born, Castiel, and I saw—it was_ your _fate, not mine, to bring about the union that had been spoken of by so many, so long ago.”_

 _“What do you mean?”_ Castiel frowns.

 _“Your wings,”_ Michael smiles affectionately, brushing the back of his forefinger against one of Castiel’s loose feathers, _“are the rarest of all Angel wings.”_

Castiel knows this, already. Anna has told him on countless occasions since Castiel’s childhood of how rare and special Castiel’s wings are—and Michael has done so, also.

 _“Yes,”_ Castiel squints at his brother. _“You’ve already informed me of this, and Anna has said of how mother’s wings were like mine, but tipped with gold instead of blue.”_

 _“And do you know what colour Lucifer’s wings are?”_ Michael asks. Castiel shakes his head.

_“You’ve never told me.”_

_“Like yours, their tips were immersed in another colour. Yours are blue, his were red. Instead of black in body, his are white.”_

_“And why is this relevant?”_ Castiel asks, his head twitching to its side.

_“Do you remember when you asked me if Angels’ wings meant anything about them—about their destinies—years ago, at our first visit to Hera, and I answered that they could?”_

_“Yes, I do,”_ Castiel confirms, confusion still twisting at his insides.

_“And I didn’t tell you what yours were said to mean.”_

_“You told me you couldn’t remember.”_

_“I did,”_ Michael nods solemnly. _“And I lied yet again to you. I am sorry, Castiel.”_

 _“What do they mean, Michael?”_ Castiel asks.

_“Lucifer’s wings mark scepticism and disbelief, rebellion and change—often in the form of cruelty, as has proven to be true.”_

_“But what about_ my _wings, Michael?”_

_“Yours—I knew, as soon as I saw them, Castiel, that it was a sign from Abra—that you were to be the one to marry a Human and unite the lands—”_

_“Yes, Michael, but what do they_ mean?” Castiel feels himself growing impatient.

 **“Hoath Ol Cordziz.”** Michael replies. Castiel recognises his answer as a quote from scripture. _“That is, Humanity.”_ He sighs wistfully. _“They mark the love of Humanity. You share Abra’s love for the Humans—a true mark of divinity and empathy—you bear the mark of one who can truly look after them, watch over them, protect them. One of the few who can carry out God’s will, the will She entrusted to us in the beginning.”_

Castiel looks down.

 _“And as you grew older, it became more and more clear to me; you were the one Abra had intended for this fate, you were the one written of long ago—you were more like a Human than any other Angel I had yet met—you had a greater love for them, for their writings—you had such an affinity for their ways, Castiel; and I knew it had to be you. All that was left was to find one suitable for you.”_ Michael pauses. His words next are weighed down with a new kind of heaviness. _“A righteous man.”_

 _“Dean,”_ Castiel finishes.

 _“Yes,”_ Michael nods. _“We chose Dean… Well, that is another matter. But the Kingdom you and Dean will rule over together lies across the sea—not the Cerydien sea, but the Aisaro, the sea that runs along the other side of Hera, Westward, beyond which the Humans have not yet explored. This Kingdom—it is a promise of hope, Castiel.”_

_“And you’ve been planning this—all of this—planning my entire destiny—since I was born?”_

Michael looks down, ashamed.

_“It was Abra’s will, Castiel.”_

_“It was you projecting what you were never_ able _to have, but always wanted, onto me,”_ Castiel frowns. _“You complain that you never asked for any of this;”_ Castiel makes the same gesture that Michael had earlier made, to the castle around them, _“and yet you forget that neither did_ I.”

 _“I said that you would think less of me, as a result of all of this truth, Castiel,”_ Michael sighs. He stares at the floor. Castiel’s heart softens.

 _“Why did we leave Hera, so suddenly, on our first visit?”_ He asks. It is another question that Michael has never answered him.

_“We left because the King and I had reached an agreement—”_

_“Michael,”_ Castiel scowls. Michael’s jaw clenches, and he sighs again.

_“It was out of jealousy, Castiel.”_

His tone has turned defeated and more tired than ever.

 _“Jealousy?”_ Castiel repeats. _“Of what?”_

 _“You,”_ Michael confesses. This word burns with shame. _“You, and your Dean—I had never thought that I would grow envious of seeing you having what I was never able to hold on to; but I had been mistaken. I grew bitter as I watched you and your prince turn into something that I so sorely missed—and although I wanted to be happy for you, it grew too painful. I came to an agreement with King John because I felt I_ had _to. It was a poor agreement, one that risked putting the Angels at a disadvantage—but I desperately wanted to leave the Earthly Realms. And this, in turn, killed me. I declared war on my brother. I agreed to set Angel armies out, against my twin—who had for a time been the very person closest to me in all the world.”_

_“And that’s why you were so angry that night?”_

_“That is why I behaved so shamefully, yes,”_ Michael nods, mortified. _“I had avoided going to war with the Demons for so long—honestly; it was more because of Lucifer than any other reason that the Angels so long enjoyed peace did not become involved in the Demon war: because I knew that if we did; it would mean facing my brother, again. It was a cowardly move on my part—I convinced myself that the war between Hera and the Demons would end, soon, but it never did. John was too stubborn; the Demons too strong, too resilient against attack after attack. You know, Castiel, that they are hardly trying… The Demons are so much stronger than King John could ever understand—they could have ended this war_ years _ago, and yet for whatever reason have decided to continue it at what can only be described as—for them, at least—a leisurely pace. I do not doubt that this is Lucifer’s intention; that he has some purpose behind it—but the point is, in avoiding the war, I was only avoiding responsibility. And when I finally_ did _carry out my duty—as an Angel, as a protector of Humanity—it was more to spare myself any more pain of guilt, than anything else.”_ Michael sighs. _“Of course, it added a great deal more pain to my heart than I had realised it would. And now, I have been at war with my_ twin, _my once closest friend, for over two years. To an Angel, it should be considered practically no time at all. A mere breath in comparison to our lifetimes. And yet it feels like a generation of sorrow.”_

Castiel bites at the inside of his mouth.

 _“I am sorry, Michael—”_ He rests his hand on Michael’s wing, but the Archangel pulls it away.

_“No, you have no need to apologise—I am the one who should be sorry. Everything I have done—every decision I have made—it has all been a mistake. And my heart has grown too weary under the weight of all of this for me to be able to cope. I want to find rest for my soul.”_

_“Things will get better, Michael,”_ Castiel attempts to soothe, but Michael’s eyes flick back to meet Castiel’s, almost challengingly.

 _“Really? Can you promise that, brother? I had thought, two years ago, that this war would be over within the season; that the pain would not last too much longer—but I had been wrong. Things do_ not _get better. The only day things_ do _get better is when God has enough mercy to remove us from this life, and place us in the sky with those we have lost. Personally, I cannot wait_ _for that day, Castiel—because it will mark the time where I will be with the one_ I _loved most, and parted from.”_

Michael stands up now, bitterly, and an understanding sets in Castiel’s heart.

 _“Is that why you always told me the tale of the first Great Angel?”_ He asks. _“The one who killed herself because she fell in love with the sky? I had always thought that that story was your favourite, you repeated it to me so often—but now I know why. You see yourself in her. You want to be with the one you fell in love with, who you could never be with; except you feel too bound by your own responsibility to leave this life as she did.”_

Michael’s expression hardens.

 _“Gabriel and Anna are waiting to wish you a happy birthday, in the Great Hall.”_ He replies, his voice hard and flat. _“Please do not blame them for what they did not tell you—it was under my instruction that they refrained from telling you the truth about all of this. I will not be joining you this morning, unfortunately. I have other pressing matters to attend to.”_

_“Michael, please—”_

_“I’ll see you this evening,”_ Michael cuts Castiel off. _“I hope your birthday is an enjoyable one.”_ He strides over to the door, and stops, his fingers lingering on the wood, dancing nervously at its surface. _“I hope you don’t think too_ _much less of me, after all of this,”_ He says quietly. Castiel doesn’t know how to reply. _“I’m sorry,”_ He says again, shortly, before exiting Castiel’s room.

The Angel sighs from where he sits, still, on his bed. His head hurts. He doesn’t know if he _can_ tell Dean all of this; so little of it makes any sense in Castiel’s mind, and now, if he told Dean, perhaps the Human would react badly—perhaps he would go back to thinking poorly of the Angels. Perhaps he would think poorly of Castiel.

But things are slotting into place, at least. Michael’s mood swings—occurring at an increasing rate, of late—can now be explained; as can his refusal to talk about his twin brother in any great detail.

And other things are becoming clear to Castiel now, too—for example, why his brother had been so furious with Anna, the night before they left Hera, on the Angels’ first visit. She had been about to compare Michael to his twin.

It also explains why Michael had been so insistent that he _did_ understand what Castiel was feeling, when Dean had been so savagely injured after his time in the Demon war. Michael had experienced the death of a loved one, too—and not just that; a _Human_ , someone he had been _in_ love with.

Michael had once been in love.

The thought hardly seems strange to Castiel, given the number of occasions Michael as proven himself capable of feeling _real,_ Human emotion—be it anger and rage, sorrow and mourning, or love for his siblings… and now, it would seem, Humans, too.

Castiel looks down, his heart aching with something he cannot yet pinpoint. He’d never known that the truth could be so painful.

 

 

…

 

 

The rest of Castiel’s day is spent not in happiness, but in pensive thought; as Castiel slides still more pieces of the puzzle into place. He greets his brother and sister as warmly as he can, down in the great hall a while later, and they spend an awkward breakfast with him—Castiel realises, fairly early on in the proceedings if not immediately, that Michael has informed them of the fact that Castiel now knows everything. Or rather, more than he did, before. They encourage Castiel to open his gifts. It makes him feel a little childish, truth be told—not only is he twenty years of age _and_ engaged to Dean, but he has also seen war; and he will very possibly be joining another Garrison, very soon—more than ever, his siblings have no reason _not_ to treat him like an adult.

He has spent what feels like hours in his room, attempting to clear his mind of the fog that seeped into it as Michael told him the truth about his own life and Castiel’s. And as Castiel thinks about it more and more, he feels angrier with Michael; but not just angry—pity towards his oldest brother and something not unlike empathy for the High King seeps into his heart. That said; neither of these things stop the burning frustration coursing through Castiel’s veins at the knowledge of _all the lies_ Michael told to him—and the fact that this is certainly not everything there is to the matter.

He had known that Michael had retained most, if not all of the truth from him—why this is, exactly, is something that Castiel is in the process of trying to work out—and Castiel had recognised and accepted that in this process of retention, Michael most likely would have lied to him—but this hasn’t lessened the blow, so to speak; and it _certainly_ had not prepared him for just _how much_ information Michael withheld, twisted, and made up all but completely.

At dinner, Castiel sits at the Great Table in the Dining Hall, where a feast and celebration has been laid out in honour of the youngest Angel Prince’s birthday. Castiel sits at a table with his brothers and sister—all the other tables are separate, and frankly the privacy is nice.

 _“How are you enjoying your birthday, Castiel?”_ Michael asks, forcing a smile in his youngest sibling’s direction. Castiel frowns pensively at the Archangel.

_“There is still more you haven’t told me, isn’t there Michael?”_

Michael bristles uncomfortably, taken aback. He looks to the windows to their right, embarrassed enough to avoid Castiel’s gaze, and coughs once into a closed fist.

_“There wasn’t time—”_

_“Then tell me now.”_ Castiel shrugs. _“If nothing else, it will fill this awkward silence.”_

Michael grimaces and looks at his feet. Never before has Castiel seen his brother looking so ashamed.

_“Where do you want me to start?”_

_“Again, the beginning.”_

_“The beginning of_ everything, _this time?”_ Michael asks, expression guilty.

 _“Yes, if you can.”_ Castiel nods. He notes that Anna is looking a little too occupied with cutting the meat on her plate; Gabriel is suddenly fascinated by the engravings on his goblet—both sit in silence and look neither to Castiel nor Michael as the pair speak.

 _“Oh, Castiel,”_ Michael groans, _“I should have written every one of your questions down.”_

This is an attempt at humour, and Castiel doesn’t appreciate it in the slightest, though Gabriel snorts into his food and both Castiel and Michael turn to give him hard, unamused expressions.

 _“What?”_ Their brother asks defensively, raising his eyebrows in cautious incredulity. _“If you had bothered writing them down, it would have implied that you actually_ wanted _to answer his questions, Michael—and let’s face it, brother, you had no such intention.”_

_“That’s not—”_

_“Seriously, Michael,”_ Anna drops her cutlery and glares up at the High King, huffing loudly, _“stop lying to our brother! I justly believe that you_ never _intended on telling Castiel the truth—so don’t act as though you always meant to tell him ‘at the right time’—it was_ never _the right time, just because all of this painted you in a bad light!”_

_“That’s not the only reason!”_

_“What other reason could there possibly be?!”_

_“You can’t raise a child with them knowing that they have a_ purpose _in life—”_

 _“Oh, don’t start with the_ ‘purpose’ _bullshit.”_ Gabriel bites, rolling his eyes. Castiel is aghast; never before has he seen his siblings be so _disrespectful_ to their older brother. _“It was never his_ destiny _to do any of this; there’s no such thing! And if you honestly believe—”_

 _“Have you not read the scripts of old?!”_ Michael asks, gripping at his cutlery so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. His voice is a furious hiss rather than a shout, a desperate attempt not to make a scene at Castiel’s birthday feast. _“It_ had _to happen, now—everything that was written was coming to fruition—and it wasn’t_ me _who—”_

 _“You only have half of those prophesies, remember?!”_ Anna snarls back at her brother, who scowls and looks away. _“And the oracles wrote those_ millennia _ago!”_

 _“That doesn’t make them any less relevant!”_ Michael rasps back, glancing up and around them to make sure nobody can overhear their conversation. _“That’s sort of the whole_ point _of prophesies!”_

 _“What do you mean, Michael only has half of them?”_ Castiel asks, addressing his sister, but she ignores him.

 _“Do you not recall what happens to those who attempt to fulfil the prophesies themselves?”_ She bites back at her brother, voice still nothing more than a horse whisper.

 _“Of course I do,”_ Michael growls back defensively, but Anna rolls her eyes and looks away.

 _“No offense, Mike, but you’re not really acting like it,”_ Gabriel interjects, fiddling nervously with one of the golden tassels of the tablecloth. The threads begin to fray between his fingers.

 _“I do!”_ Michael exclaims, voice still quiet enough that all the tables around them remain unable to hear the heated discussion.

 _“You’re meddling in things that are above your realm of knowledge,”_ Anna’s lip curls and she clenches her fist, growling at her brother as he pulls a livid face back at her. _“If Abra wished for them to be revealed to you—”_

 _“I_ have _the scrolls—”_

 _“You have_ half _the scrolls,”_ she corrects, angrily. _“And they are_ not _the final authority on all matters, you know that! Do not rely on the words of oracles more than you rely on the word of_ Abra—”

 _“But this_ must _be the work of Abra!”_ Michael retorts. _“It has Her work and power written all over it!”_

 _“Why do you have only half the scrolls?”_ Castiel asks again, utterly confused. _“And what_ are _the scrolls? And what prophesies are you talking about?!”_ He is growing increasingly frustrated at his siblings’ stubborn arguing; he wants to sit outside and read a book, listen to Samandriel tell him a story of the trouble he and his younger brother used to get into with the travelling merchants down in the market below the palace; anything but this.

 _“You promised you would tell Castiel everything when he turned twenty,”_ Anna states pointedly, her voice saturated with passive-aggression and now at normal speaking level. _“Go on then, Michael. Tell him.”_

Michael is silent for a moment, fist clenching and unclenching. He stares down at the surface of the table, eyes a stormy blaze of anger and self-control.

 _“I said I would tell him when he was twenty,”_ He says slowly. Anna and Gabriel look with confusion at the High King as though they do not know where he is going with this. _“I have an entire year to continue disclosing information to him.”_

Castiel’s heart sinks into his stomach. His brother’s tone is laced with a dry, furious triumph at finding such a loophole in his own promise to Castiel; and Anna looks as though she could murder something at the sound of his words, let alone their content.

 _“Michael,”_ Gabriel groans, rubbing his face with the palm of his hands.

 _“Do_ not _challenge me, brother!”_ Michael exclaims, banging his palm flat on the table with enough force that the entire room shakes. Thunder sounds outside, murky and unpromising, the skies turn quickly grey, in the way water will turn blue when a drop of ink falls into it. The Hall turns deathly silent and suddenly Gabriel and Anna look no longer angry and frustrated, but _terrified._ The Angels surrounding them stare with a kind of petrified reverence, but Castiel is almost too confused to feel alarmed.

 _“Honoured Guests,”_ Michael stands, his tone still enough to be shocking—is he being sarcastic? His words appear to be dripping with irony, and yet, would the High King ever be so unkind? _“My brother thanks you profusely for attending this feast, and for your kind gifts and words, all of which he appreciates. He will be returning to his room imminently, as he finds himself exhausted by the day’s excitements.”_ The sky outside rumbles with thunder yet again, the dull, unpromising clouds rolling over each other, closer and closer towards the palace. _“The feast is over. We pray you enjoyed yourselves this night. May Abra smile upon you and bless you on your way.”_

The guests repeat this sentiment, some lifting their goblets and toasting, but all rising and shuffling out of their seats as suddenly servants bustle all around them, frantic to clear everything away before Michael grows any more angry. Castiel glares up at his brother a moment—not that it matters, Michael refuses to look at him but instead tosses back his goblet of wine and refills it, repeating the action with a venomous expression—and the younger Angel storms shakily back up to his quarters. He doesn’t stop to look back at either Anna or Gabriel.

Castiel lies awake that night, staring into the empty space above him. He doesn’t know what to do; or how to react. He doesn’t know if he should tell Dean all of this—he doesn’t know if he should tell Dean, now; write to him and say all that has happened—or if he should wait until he next sees the Human, face to face.

But that could be _months_ away.

Perhaps it will be shortly before Dean and Castiel get _married._ Castiel feels nervous flutters thrill through him at the thought. It’ll be soon, now—probably _very_ soon; and the thought both overjoys and terrifies the Angel. How does Dean feel about it? Castiel knows that Dean hates all the time the two of them are forced to spend in public; that he loathes the manufactured nature of their engagement—but would he at least be happy to be _married_ to Castiel? Does he still want that?

Does Dean still _love_ Castiel?

The Angel wrestles with these thoughts; all the while putting off writing to Dean and informing him of all that has happened, all that Michael has told him, and indeed still not told him—but a few days after Castiel’s birthday—all of which Castiel has spent in company void of his older brother; completely unsure of how to speak to him, after all that has happened and has been revealed—a message is delivered to Castiel’s home; apparently urgent, from Hera.

_King John is dead._

Castiel’s heart crumples—not for the loss of the King; whom Castiel had rarely spoken to and hardly known in all his time in Hera, and honestly found cold and rather unnerving, if pitiful—but his heart breaks for Dean. He can only imagine how broken the Human Prince—soon to be King now, surely, considering the time it takes for Human’s to deliver messages to the mountains—feels.

Castiel asks Michael for permission to visit Hera.

 _“You may go,”_ Michael nods shortly, his face pale—Castiel senses there is something his brother is not telling him, but he doesn’t mention it; this is the first time he and Michael have spoken since Castiel’s twentieth birthday. _“But alone.”_

 _“What do you mean?”_ Castiel asks, frowning. His head inclines slightly to the side, as it always does when he is slightly perplexed, but Michael’s mien doesn’t soften at all in response, where usually he would smile affectionately at Castiel’s admittedly odd idiosyncrasies. Castiel wonders just how much has changed between the two of them.

 _“You may go alone. I am allowing you to go alone,”_ Michael replies shortly. He doesn’t make eye contact with Castiel, but instead stares out ahead of himself—Castiel wonders why this is; usually when Michael is avoiding Castiel’s gaze, he looks down, to the ground, almost ashamed. But not today, apparently.

 _“But why?”_ Castiel asks, no less bewildered.

 _“You’ve said it enough,”_ Michael’s lip curls cruelly. _“You’re an adult, now. Or at least, not a child. Act like it. And let me treat you that way, if it’s what you_ really _want.”_

 _“But why_ now?” Castiel feels himself scowl at his brother’s words. _“And why are you being so aggressive?”_

 _“I’m not being aggressive, Castiel. I think you’re imagining things,”_ Michael’s tone is hard, dull and flat. Castiel winces at it.

 _“Passive aggressive, then,”_ Castiel corrects himself, his jaw clenching. The younger Angel watches as a muscle twitches at his brother’s face.

 _“You have my_ permission _to go to Hera, Castiel, which I believe is what you wanted.”_ Michael scowls. _“But alone.”_

_“Why don’t you want to go, too? Why are you so suddenly changing your stance, so dramatically, on my travelling alone?”_

_“I’ve already explained—”_

_“You promised no more lies!”_ Castiel shouts, now, and for the first time in their conversation, Michael’s eyes flick over to Castiel’s face.

 _“No, Castiel! I promised I would tell you the truth about everything you_ had _asked me! I_ never _promised to_ always _tell it to you!”_

 _“Why are you hiding things from me, now, Michael?!”_ Castiel bellows. _“What could_ possibly _make me think_ any _less of you, now?!”_

Michael’s wings flare out behind him. Castiel takes a step back, fear burning suddenly inside of him.

 _“You may go without me, or not at all,”_ Michael snarls, his words terrifyingly contained and deliberated. _“That is my final word, brother.”_

Castiel bites the inside of his mouth hard to keep himself from trembling.

He nods once to Michael, turning on his heel and exiting.

He packs for the Earthly Kingdoms as soon as he reaches his room. He leaves that evening. He doesn’t say goodbye to his brother. He flies, this time, and questions why he has never been allowed to do so before, in travelling to the Earthy Realm.

Upon his arrival into Hera, Castiel can see the entire city taking part in the mourning and lament of their deceased King. Something heavy and melancholy has settled over the entirety of the city, and Castiel supposes, the whole Kingdom, too. It is dark when Castiel reaches the castle, the black sky beating out pulses of more sorrow into the buildings and turrets below it—Castiel flew down from the mountains, the whole way to the Great City at the heart of Hera. It is the first time he hasn’t travelled by carriage to Dean’s home.

The huge gates swing open for him when he announces his presence at the castle steps. The servants are all wearing black. No-one smiles. When Castiel finds Ellen, after a great flurry of confusion and searching, her eyes are red and swollen with tears and worry, and she pulls the Angel towards him for the tightest hug imaginable. She wears all black, a cloak that covers her head and body and stretches down to her feet. The castle around Castiel sounds as though it is heaving out great sorrowful sighs. There is a music, lilting and mournful and uncomfortable enough to be nightmarish coming down a stone passageway.

“Castiel, it’s so relieving to see you—” Ellen cuts herself off with a sad, broken little noise. It is the first time that Castiel thinks of how flimsy Humans are—he had once thought Ellen to be made of steady and durable stuff, like metal or oak; now he sees that she is just as breakable as any other of her kind. The whole Kingdom is lost in mourning for a King who has remained distant and bitter with revenge for fifteen years.

Castiel returns the sentiment. He squeezes Ellen tightly, in the hope that it will be a reassurance—the gesture was always apparently comforting to Dean; but then that was _Dean_ , and Castiel isn’t very well versed in social skills in general, unless they are around that particular Human.

“How has he been?” Castiel asks. Apparently, he doesn’t need to specify that he is referring to Dean, here.

“Not good.” Ellen shakes her head, face falling further still with worry and sorrow. “Not good at all—it’s so relieving you’re here, Castiel, I don’t think he would’ve managed if you hadn’t come.”

“And how are you faring?” Castiel asks. Ellen’s expression softens.

“That’s very kind of you to ask, Sire.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m getting by,” Ellen looks down.

“So, not good, then?” Castiel asks. Ellen sighs.

“It’s hard to be doing well in times like this, Castiel,” She says, quietly. “I’m not sure if you’ve experienced a death like this when you were old enough to understand. I’ll take you to Dean, now.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Castiel nods, softly, as Ellen leads him into the room Castiel has always known as the dining hall, only to find Dean sat at a table placed in its centre, surrounded by advisers. He looks broken.

“Sire,” Ellen calls over to him, “You have a visitor.”

Dean looks up.

Castiel expects to see Dean’s expression softening, to see relief flooding over the Human’s features, to see Dean stand up and make his way over, desperately, to Castiel, throwing his arms around the Angel with glassy tears in his eyes and enough emotions to smother Castiel’s own void of worry.

He doesn’t expect to see Dean’s expression curl with something shatteringly close to loathing.

“Get him out,” Dean snarls, and Castiel takes a step back on instinct, catching the horrified look on Ellen’s face; as well as the awkward and uncomfortable looks exchanged by the Lords and advisers surrounding Dean.

“Dean!—” Ellen nearly gasps, but Dean doesn’t listen.

“Get him out,” Dean repeats, his lip curling, struggling to keep his voice even, “and I’ll join you presently.”

Castiel waits out in the entrance hall for what feels like an eternity.

When the doors of the dining hall finally swing open, Castiel feels more fear than he feels relief.

“Leave us, Ellen,” Dean says shortly to Ellen, who has been standing with Castiel while he waits in terrified confusion.

All those that Castiel loved most are turning against him, one by one.

“Dean—” She attempts, but Dean’s face fills with outrage at her answering back.

“That’s an _order_ ,” Dean snarls, and Ellen nods and bows her head shortly, before exiting, face red.

“Dean—” Castiel tries, but Dean holds up his hand, motioning for Castiel to be quite; a simple, cold gesture that rips into the Angel’s heart.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Dean’s body is tense, his muscles stiff as he speaks to Castiel; he stands at a stifling distance, as though he doesn’t want to go anywhere near the Angel, and it sends still more agonising splinters into the Angel’s heart. “I don’t want to hear any more bullshit excuses, or fake words, or crap filled with more lies about what you apparently feel for me—I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to let you speak only to hear you make something up. All of this is your fault. I fucking _hate_ you.”

“Dean, what are you talking about?” Castiel frowns.

“You _know_ what I’m talking about!” Dean bellows, taking several furious steps forward and slamming his hand onto the wall behind Castiel. “You—” Dean is trembling, now. “ _None_ of it was real! You _lied_ to me!”

“What? How?!” Castiel shouts back. “And _when?!”_

“It was _your brother_ whose fault it is my mom is _dead!”_ Dean shouts, tears filling his eyes, now. Castiel breathes in, about to respond, about to explain himself, but Dean continues. “—And it was that same brother who was behind killing my father!”

Dean’s voice breaks in Castiel’s ears.

Castiel had not known _this_ piece of information.

“And this _whole_ _thing_ ,” Dean continues, tears spilling onto his cheeks now, something which doesn’t fail to break Castiel’s heart, all over again, “is a _fucking lie!”_ Dean’s voice goes hoarse as he continues bellowing at Castiel.

“What do you mean?!” Castiel gasps at Dean’s tone; even though it’s killing him, all of this is killing him.

“You _planned_ this!” Dean’s words are almost lost between tears, now. “You planned you and me— _all_ of the Angels did— _Michael_ did—just so you could have your weird, shitty little Kingdom where everything is okay— _that’s_ the only reason you all planned for me to get married to you! You were lying, the whole time! It was all for your own gain! You never _really_ lov—” Dean cuts himself of, blinking out more tears; and Castiel can _tell_ the Human is trying to control them, attempting to hold them back, but it’s to no avail, anyway. “But _I_ did, you.” The Human’s voice is dry and quiet, and it rakes against his throat as he speaks. “You were lying, this whole time. I didn’t mean _jack shit_ to you. How could you—how _dare you?!_ You’re evil—every one of you—pure evil, I don’t care… My father was right all along—you don’t _feel—_ ”

“No, Dean—”

“That’s _King_ Dean, Angel,” Dean snarls, now. Castiel blinks. “Yeah,” The Heran sneers. “You missed the coronation. And the funeral.”

“I’m sorry, Dean—”

“No you’re _not.”_ Dean spits, scowling at Castiel. “I _know_ you’re not, don’t you remember? I know everything, now. Angels _can’t_ feel. And I don’t mean _jack shit_ to you.”

This is what pushes Castiel too far. Something snaps in his mind, and before he knows it, Dean is pushed up, back against the other wall of the entrance hall, and the snarl is on Castiel’s face, now.

 _“No,_ Dean,” Castiel spits. “Don’t you _dare_ say you meant nothing to me—that you _mean_ nothing to me. I was prepared to give up _everything—_ I was going to _fall_ for you; Dean—I was going to abandon everything; rebel, leave my home, live a life void of any of my Angelic powers—of my birthright, of my culture, my _heritage_ —and I was going to do it—all of it—for _you_ , Dean. I was going to give up everything, for _nothing_. So keep your opinions _to yourself.”_

He tosses Dean out of his grip, now, and the Human straightens up and lunges at Castiel, but the Angel anticipates the move and dodges it, flipping Dean onto the ground.

“Don’t forget, Dean,” Castiel snarls, “I _always_ beat you in hand combat.”

Dean scowls and tears himself from Castiel’s grip, pushing the Angel away from him.

“The engagement is off.” Dean’s face is still damp with tears. “I don’t want to marry you anymore. I only wish I’d seen that you _never_ wanted to marry me.”

“You _know_ that’s not true—”

“Fucking do I, though, Angel?! What proof do I have?!”

Castiel falls silent.

“Exactly,” Dean’s voice quakes, however hard and flat the Angel can hear him attempting to make it, although it rings with a bitter sort of triumph. “I never meant anything to you. The engagement is off. I hate you—and before you interrupt, I don’t think hate is as bad as indifference. You only _ever_ felt indifferent—”

“Dean, _please_ believe me—”

 _“Enough!”_ Dean shouts, shaking, new, fresh tears tumbling onto his face. “I don’t want to hear it! The engagement is off! Stop it! It’s over, Cas! Leave! _Now_!”

Castiel shakes. Tears fill his eyes. But he isn’t going to cry in front of Dean. He takes flight and leaves the Kingdom from where he stands, in the entrance hall of Hera.

He doesn’t doubt that this will be his last visit to the Kingdom.

And, perhaps, the last time he sees Dean, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, drama. There's a happy ending, I promise.
> 
> There just also happens to be a lot of shit between now and then. And it's only just begun.
> 
> Thanks for reading - please comment!


	18. The Father of Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next, like, 10 chapters are gonna be dramatic as FUCK. So brace yourselves!
> 
> There's gonna be a happy ending, and it's gonna be sweet and beautiful and everything that you deserve, I promise! You've just gotta wade through some dramatic wankery first. But it'll make the payoff that much better. I promise.
> 
> This chapter, and many of the chapters to come, will feature much blatant quoting of canon.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**“All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.”**

**― Mitch Albom, The Five People You Meet in Heaven**

 

Dean sends the message to the Demon Kingdoms of his plans for withdrawing from the war five weeks into his reign over Hera. The reply is almost instantaneous.

They want to speak with Dean personally.

Dean will be sailing across the Cerydien Sea to the Demon Kingdom of Heolster in only a few weeks’ time. But before Dean makes any kind of peace agreements with the Demons, he has to speak with the Angels first.

On the day that the Angels arrive in Hera, he thinks for a moment that Castiel isn’t coming. And he knows he should feel a pulse of relief, a coil of bitter satisfaction mingling coolly with triumph that he has pushed Castiel so far away that the Angel can’t even bring himself to return to Hera after all his lies have been uncovered; even when the ruling family in all its entirety is summoned to the Kingdom.

But he doesn’t. He feels only a cruel flare of disappointment and a terrible hollow of _loneliness_ that only reminds him of how much Castiel used to mean to him, _still_ means to him; of how far the Angel managed to bury himself under Dean’s skin—and of how far Dean _let_ the Angel bury himself under Dean’s skin. For another, countless time, Dean kicks himself internally for being such a _fool._

Michael arrives first. Dean is surprised that he doesn’t arrive by carriage; but he is at least by now used to the sight of Angels in flight. Two of his advisers follow behind him.

Anna arrives next, then Gabriel, too, both being stiffly cordial with Dean. He tries not to think of how these are the creatures who mapped out his relationship with Cas in all its entirety, who have caused him so much grief and misery when before he had felt nothing but invulnerable joy at the thought of Castiel.

And Dean is just starting to convince himself that _no,_ Castiel is _not_ coming, when another Angel lands, white vapour and cloud flashing into form, into a person—and this person has a mess of dark hair that makes the contents of Dean’s stomach come to a sickened boil and eyes that feel like shards of glass in Dean’s skull and wings that splinter Dean’s heart into a thousand pieces of broken porcelain. He looks away from the Angel. He _refuses_ to make eye-contact with him. He states as coldly and plainly as possible that he will hold their discussion in the main hall, where a great round table has been placed in the very centre. Dean doesn’t intend to explain his motivations for cancelling his betrothal with Castiel; and so he is relieved that none of the Angels bring it up. Perhaps they know just what Dean knows about them now, perhaps they know that there is no use in fighting with him.

“What is it that caused you to request our presence, King Dean?” Michael asks, taking a seat at the table as Dean has instructed. The rest of the Angels follow suit, Anna and Gabriel sharing uncomfortable glances that urge Dean’s anger further.

“I want out,” He states, attempting to keep his voice as even as possible. He avoids looking at Castiel. Still, he avoids looking at him, despite an urge that feels like a burning itch to flick his eyes over to his once beloved for even just a _moment_. The Angel’s gaze weighs heavy on the side of his face, but Dean refuses to give in to whatever emotional game Castiel has chosen to play with him, today.

“What do you mean?” Michael frowns. Coming to think of it, Dean can barely stand to look at _this_ Angel, either. Something nauseated and bitter coils sharply in his stomach at the sight of the High King of the Heavenly Realms; who so happily put Dean through so much anguish for the sake of his own cause. Traced far enough, the blame for _everything_ terrible in Dean’s life can be attributed to Castiel’s oldest brother: the death of Queen Mary, the Demon War, Dean’s father growing so distant and then becoming someone new who was not Dean’s father at all; Dean _falling_ in the Demon war and coming out more damaged than ever before with nightmares that will haunt him for the rest of his life; Dean’s father _dying;_ Dean losing the one person he had ever thought he could be in love with.

“I want out of this,” Dean says, his voice trembling. His lip is threatening to curl into some kind of disgusted expression; and it doesn’t surprise him—he _is_ disgusted—with everything the Angels have done; with all the pain and misery and confusion they have caused him, for every one of their deceptions. “The war with the Demons. All of the Earthly Kingdoms involved are dropping out. Including Hera.”

“You want to end the war?” Michael asks, perplexed, his head inclining slightly to the side—and Dean loathes the part of him that is so greatly reminded of Castiel by the gesture. “Why?”

“No,” Dean shakes his head shortly, speaking as harshly, as coldly as he humanly can. He hates the fact that his voice is so constantly threatening to waver. “Not end the war. Humanity will withdraw. The Angels will not.”

“And why is that?” Michael asks, standing up, now—Dean has made a point of not seating himself for the entirety of the proceedings, and honestly, now he sees the Archangel standing, he feels even less confidant than earlier. Michael is what feels like a head and shoulders taller than Dean, although perhaps that’s simply the power of the Angel’s presence and the girth of his wings. In all things, Michael and Castiel are brethren, identical, and Castiel is shorter than Dean by a hair’s breadth. “Why do you expect us to agree to this?”

“Because this isn’t _my_ war.” Dean scowls, his hands clenching by his sides into balled fists—and though he knows that Michael could destroy him with a single _look,_ this doesn’t extinguish the anger simmering in his gut.

“It was your father’s—”

 _“No!”_ Dean spits, again. “It was _never_ a Human war! I only wish I’d seen it sooner—I only wish my _father_ had been able to see it! This was never about the Humans; you only used us as _pawns—”_

“What do you mean, Your Majesty?”

Michael’s words have turned bitterly patronising; only shrouded in the cheap veil of respect.

“This was never our war,” Dean shakes, his voice surprisingly even, now. “I know about Lucifer. I know—” Dean’s hands tremble. For the first time, he looks at Castiel. His heart sinks like a stone in water—the Angel is looking down, away from Dean. Staring at the table. He can’t even _look_ at Dean. “Just assume that I know everything. ‘Cause I do. Your _twin_ told me pretty much the whole deal. So, here’s _my_ deal—Humanity—Hera, if we’re going to be particular—is not going to play any part in this war. We’re going to drop out; we’re going to go back to normal. We’re going to stop laying down our lives for some petty brother’s feud while we have no idea what the _fuck_ is really going on. And you’re going to stay a part of it, you’re going to fight it out—you’re going to do the shit that you _promised_ you would: protect Humanity. And you’re not going to concern us with any of this, anymore. Deal?”

Michael sits back down. Dean watches as a muscle in his jaw clenches then unclenches.

“Answer me one thing, Dean.”

Dean’s stomach drops for a moment. Is Michael going to ask him about Cas? Is he going to question why Dean broke off the engagement? Is Dean going to have to break his heart, trying to explain it, _again?_

“What?”

“Is bitterness hereditary, for the Winchesters? Or is it something you can’t seem to avoid developing, over time on the Heran throne?”

Dean’s jaw is the one to clench this time.

“Did I make myself _fucking_ _clear_?” He asks, scowling at the Archangel and punctuating his last words with a slam of his closed fist on the thick table. “We’re out. Done. Finished. This is your war, now—it always was. If you understand, you can leave.”

Michael makes his way to stand.

“And for the record,” Dean glares at Castiel’s oldest brother. “You must be a _really_ shit brother, ‘cause I’d _never_ let my relationship with Sammy get as fucked as yours with Lucifer. Never ever.”

“Oh?” Michael turns to look at Dean. Challenging him. “And why is that?”

“Because I love him, because I’m _honest_ with him, because we’re close enough—”

Michael snorts softly.

“What?” Dean glowers.

“That’s exactly what _I_ had thought, once upon a time. And look what happened. Just watch what happens with you and—‘Sammy’?” He snorts lightly. “Just watch. No love can last forever, Dean, no matter how strong.”

And Michael has gone. Dean returns his gaze back to the table. The advisers have left with their King in a flash of white vapour. Gabriel’s face has set with something sombre and unforgiving. He makes his way to stand, too, tapping Castiel on the shoulder.

**_“Would you like to come to Theia, with me? Or continue your stay with Anna, in Tyrzah?”_ **

Castiel shrugs tersely. He still isn’t looking up. When he speaks, for the first time, his voice is unbelievably small. It cracks and rakes over his throat. Dean winces at the sound.

 ** _“I don’t care.”_** Dean cannot understand him. He can’t understand any of it; even if he _can_ make a just few of the words out. **_“Just not with Michael. And not here. Never here again. Anywhere else, I don’t care.”_**

 ** _“Okay,”_** Gabriel nods. He squeezes his brother’s shoulder and then he too is gone. Anna stands next.

 ** _“Go on ahead of me, brother,”_** She murmurs. **_“I’ll join you in a moment.”_**

Castiel nods. Dean _wishes_ the Angel would look at him.

But he doesn’t. He’s gone in a mist of white light and smoke, and Dean wants to think it’s beautiful—today he’s seen Castiel fly twice where he had only ever witnessed it once before, just a few weeks ago, and it’s elegant and magnificent and unearthly and he wants to marvel at the motion’s infinite beauty; but he _can’t,_ because this is the Angel who has caused him _so much pain;_ and he can’t afford to believe that _anything_ about him is beautiful.

“Dean,” Anna says firmly. Dean jumps and turns to face the redheaded Angel. He hadn’t realised that she had stayed behind.

“What is it?” Dean frowns, his jaw clenching. “Did you not understand something?”

“Yes,” Anna nods. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Well?” Dean raises his eyebrows at Castiel’s sister impatiently.

“I don’t understand why you cancelled your betrothal to my brother.”

Oh. There it is. Just when Dean was beginning to think he’d managed to worm his way out of having to answer that, one of Cas’s fucking siblings had to go and bring it up. And of course it would be Anna, in the end.

“I think you already know why—”

“Whatever you may think you know, Dean, I assure you with all due respect, that you’re wrong about it,” Anna cuts over Dean, her words patient and firm. They make anger flare up inside of the Human.

“What do you mean?” He glares.

“Castiel _loves_ you—”

Dean doesn’t realise that he has slammed his open palm onto the wood of the table. He glances down at it, noting the dull throbbing sensation that now prickles through him; then flicks his gaze back up at Anna. She doesn’t look afraid. She looks almost _amused._ But she _has_ stopped talking—although perhaps more out of respect rather than anything else.

“Don’t,” Dean breathes deeply, struggling to keep his voice even. “Don’t. I’ve had enough—I don’t—I _can’t—_ I don’t want to listen to any more lies from the mouths of Angels.”

“It’s _not—”_

“It is! It fucking is and you fucking _know_ it! Cas _never_ loved me! Cas—”

Dean breaks off. He looks down. He doesn’t want to cry; but right now, there’s certainly a real threat that he might.

“Leave,” He mumbles. “And tell Castiel that I don’t want to see him, anymore. I didn’t want him to be here today, I don’t know why he fucking came—”

“He thought—perhaps in vain—that if you saw him, again, you would realise that you were wrong—” Anna’s voice turns heated and frustrated, but Dean doesn’t let her finish her sentence.

“Yeah,” He interrupts, hands closing into fists. “It _was_ in vain. I’ve told you to stop lying. I’ve told you to leave. Apparently, you’re not doing either, so—”

Anna’s gold-scarlet wings flare out behind her, her eyes alight and dancing with a fire that makes Dean flinch back, but in the next instant, she is gone. Dean breathes deeply for a few moments, thoroughly shaken as he wishes away the tears stinging at his eyes, before standing and making his way back to his chambers, informing Ellen that he does not wish to be interrupted for the rest of the day. By the evening, his eyes are raw with emotion. He cries himself to sleep.

 

…

 

A few days before Dean is supposed to leave for the Demon Kingdoms; Sam requests to join him. Dean is going to refuse outright—he nearly _screams_ his response out to his brother— _No, no, what the_ fuck _is wrong with you, Sammy?! Why the_ fuck _would you_ want _to?!—_ but before he can, Bobby has already told him that this wouldn’t be a problem.

“Yes it fucking _will—”_ Dean scowls, attempting to cut Bobby off, but Bobby gives him a cool, hard stare that however frustratingly—and humiliatingly—somehow manages to shut Dean up.

“Dean, you’re going, so why can’t I?!” Sam glares in Dean’s direction; and Dean returns the look tenfold.

“For your own fucking good, Sammy! For your own protection!”

“I don’t _need_ protection!”

“You’re a kid!”

“And you’re not?!”

“No!” Dean bellows.

“Dean!” Bobby grabs Dean’s shoulder, and Dean turns to the man, scowling fiercely. “If you’re going; he can come, too. He’s only looking out for you—”

“I don’t _need_ looking out for—”

“If you honestly think that, Dean, then I can genuinely say that you’re just as deluded as you are stubborn,” Bobby rolls his eyes. Anger thrums through Dean’s already terse frame. “None of us are going to be in _any_ danger—”

“We’re at war with them, Bobby!” Dean sighs, exasperated, finding it impossible to believe that he’s the only one who can see this. “Of course there’s a danger! There’s a very real and threatening one!”

“You know that’s not true—we have protection, allies—the Demons aren’t going to try to do anything to us. Not if it risks the Angels and other of the Human Kingdoms reacting to it.”

 Dean grits his teeth.

“Bobby, the place we’re talking about—Heolster—it isn’t a place for a _child_ , you know—”

“Firstly, Dean—you realise that Demons have children too, right? There are already children there, it’s not a battlefield! And secondly, Sam is far more mature than you seem able to give him credit for.”

“I’m _King_ , Bobby—I can forbid it—”

Bobby’s eyes flash with something—a warning look. It shuts Dean up again. He scowls at both his brother and his closest adviser—and maybe, closest thing to a father—but says nothing more in words of protest.

“Fine,” He glowers at the two of them, before pushing his chair out and leaving the chamber.

They down to the seafront. There, they are to travel by boat across the sea and into Heolster. It isn’t the first time Dean has crossed the Cerydien—he travelled by boat into the deserted, baron lands beside the two Demon Kingdoms when he fought in war with the Demons, and to the multitude of islands inbetween which have been claimed and reclaimed innumerable times during the war.

A cold sweat covers his body as their ship sets sail onto the wide green sea, trembling in the dimming light. The sun sets heavy over the shadowy horizon. The journey should take a few days in all. Speaking with the Demons—or, rather, the _idea_ of speaking with them—sets a horrible, nauseated feeling that blankets his nerves and smothers his mind coursing through his system. Dean is going to be sick. He can’t do this, he needs _someone—_ he wishes Cas were here; but he _hates_ Cas—he wishes Cas loved him; that this hadn’t all just been part of some sick plan of Angelkind, he wishes that Cas loved Dean like Dean lov—

No. _No._ Maybe once. But not any more.

The sails flutter and billow in the strong winds with cracks and snaps. Dean stands at the helm of the ship, his breath uneven. The wind stings his skin. His heart pommels at his ribs.

It doesn’t help that Sam seems to find all of this freaking _delightful_. He grins and darts up and down the length of the ship, speaking excitedly with the navigator and the captain and even the cabin boys; he looks like a _child_ as he gazes, bright eyed, over the horizon ahead of them. Dean squeezes the edge of the boat for dear life, its dark thick wood being the only promise of security left in an otherwise unpromising world. Bobby’s hand comes to rest on Dean’s shoulder—a quiet reassurance, and one that Dean had not at all expected he had been so lost in his thoughts. He jolts back into reality and glances up at the older man, his scruffy beard and navy blue attire.

“It’s gonna be alright, Dean,” Comes a steady, soft promise from the older man’s lips. Well. Dean certainly hopes so.

Days later, Dean watches as the land of the Demon Kingdom rolls closer and closer toward their boat; he imagines that his people in their great ship are merely remaining motionless from where they float, on the boat rocking gently from side to side in the gaping sea, that it is the Demons who are really drawing closer and closer to them, and not vice versa.

The harbours are heavily armoured and defended, which puts Dean at further unease. Walls leagues high stretch up ahead of them, and then on either side of them, as they pass through a gate allowing ships through.

When they arrive at the docks, their ship is moored and fastened and they are greeted by Demon noblemen who lead Dean and his advisers to the citadel. They dress in deep reds and golds of what must be silk, matching the rich desert sands that surround the Demon lands. Most of them wear loose hoods over their heads in order to keep the beating dry sun off of them.

The bronze gates of the city, pulsing with the heat and fury of the day, open wide to reveal two paths, one a winding and low track sinking ever deeper into the houses and merchant-stands in the underbelly of the city, and one high enough that it really ought to be a bridge; leading straight to the doors of the palace itself, leagues away from them.

Honestly, it is a marvel of architecture and Dean would wish to find it beautiful—everywhere he looks are rich, warm colours, some dry as the desert and others like fresh fruit; all around him the buildings are carved by hand and detailed to a fault, Dean wants to look everywhere and nowhere. He has never seen a Demon without armour on, obscuring his perspective of them—and truthfully they aren’t as terrifying as he had feared they would be. Perhaps it’s merely because they aren’t attempting to kill Dean at this moment, which is the only other state Dean has been privileged with witnessing Demons in.

He looks at the busy, complex and winding streets below their path, the high bridge over the people of the citadel, and considers the similarities and differences between these Demons and his own people. They shout in the street, bartering over goods in a language that Dean does not understand—although it does bear certain similarities with the language of the Angels; their words seem to roll into one and their consonants sound harsher and harder than Dean is used to, although their vowels sound soft and delicately elegant. Many of them spit their words angrily while others laugh in lilting, foreign accents with their friends and neighbours, sharing a joke with a butcher or fruitseller.

He sees mothers carrying children on their back; little girls running through the street trailing sticks in the thin sand behind them, drawing patterns. They call after their friends in excited, bright voices that shine like the desert sun; Dean watches one of the girls in a coral dress dance and spin around with bells attached to her feet as she drags her stick through the sand of the lower path. Her dark curly hair flutters in the wind underneath her faded cotton scarf, she beams in giddy childish delight and Dean has to look away due to the pang of longing striking sharply through his heart at the sight of such unadulterated, innocent joy.

He sees fathers picking up their sons and holding them high in the air, both parties laughing giddily, saturated with love, and feels a pang of longing; he sees mothers and fathers and fathers and fathers and mothers and mothers and parents and partners locked in tight embrace and his insides tremble.

He glances up to his group’s guides, remembering all that was told to him of Demonkind, once upon a time. He’s never been gifted with an opportunity of examining them before, never been able to observe them outside of their armour, moving so freely and naturally and non-violently, the same but _different_ to Humans. He’s never been able to examine their features, see their eyes in clear daylight and unobstructed as he can now.

Many of their eyes are black, just as the stories always told. They have no irises, no pupils, no whites; just a stretch of black that is nowhere near as cold and unkind as Dean had spent so many years envisaging. As soon as he thinks this, of course, he feels like a traitor to himself and all of his years of hating the Demons for what they did to his mother, and by extension, the rest of his family. He attempts to harden his heart to the Demons just as he once did to the Angels.

One of their guides has red eyes and a demeanour somewhat more aloof than the others. Dean examines this Demon from the corner of his eye, making a point—unlike Sammy—to avoid speaking with their hosts. Bobby is giving him a hard reprimanding look, as though his cold manner is the most abhorrent of social indiscretions, but he ignores the man by continuing to examine his surroundings and those people filling them.

The enormous doors of the palace are a red bright enough to be scarlet, yet the wood appears unpainted. Both doors have bronze winding its way in snakelike patterns across them; the handles themselves being great serpent heads the size of horse’s heads.

They are greeted by servants at the door. Up close, the palace isn’t particularly ominous either. There are no dark towers or spikes with Human heads impaled upon them; only brick a much lighter and sandier colour than Dean thinks he has ever witnessed. The building is unexpectedly elegant, with long and relatively thin round towers and a somewhat domed great tower in the centre of the structure. Inside, the servants seem to go about their business in much the same way that those in Hera do. Maybe—just as Dean was wrong about the Angels—he was wrong in his preconceptions of the Demons.

They are led into a long, thin hall, with an arching ceiling and stained glass windows the colours of fire when fresh logs have just been placed on it; a mess of shimmering yellows and tentative oranges—it is not dissimilar to the main hall of Dean’s home; although it is admittedly far less square than Hera’s. Dean tries to let the odd familiarity comfort his thrumming nerves.

A Demon enters the room. He has dark hair, pale skin, and a short beard, holding a kind of confident, offhand composure that Dean finds he both greatly envies and dislikes.

“Hello boys,” His voice is rough; although not in the gravelly, warm way Castiel’s voice once sounded to Dean’s ears—and it holds none of the Angel’s comfort. A loose, cool smile is playing across his lips as he speaks; on instinct Dean balls one of his hands into a fist. He can feel his nails leaving harsh, crescent shaped indentations onto his palm. Perhaps it’s the Demon’s careless manner; or the way in which he appears to be taking full advantage of the fact that Dean and those with him are not in a position to reply in such an informal manner. “It’s a pleasure to be able to meet you at last; I _must_ say.” The Demon’s eyes wander over to Sammy, Dean moves move defensively over to his brother without any other thought.

“Now, now,” The Demon rolls his eyes drolly. “There’s no need to be protective, Sire—I mean, with all due respect, if we’d wanted to harm you, that’d already be well underway.”

Dean scowls.

“As it is,” The dark haired man continues coolly, the ghost of a leer creeping across his features and quiet amusement sliding across his pitch black eyes “I’ve been instructed to make you feel as at home as possible.”

Dean highly doubts that this would be _at_ _all_ possible. He says as much. The Demon smirks.

“Fair enough,” He shrugs carelessly. “Although I _do_ hope we’ll manage to change your mind. Anyway, as for introductions, my name is Crowley. I suppose you could say I run things, here in Heolster.”

“I thought Lucifer—”

“The Angel is something like all the Demons’ _overlord_ —make of that statement what you will, I’d rather not speak of it in any more detail—but I am the one ruling this particular Demon Kingdom.”

“And who runs the other?” Dean frowns.

“A Demon named Abaddon,” Crowley’s tone turns surprisingly bitter, here. “Who I can’t say I get along especially well with—so unsurprisingly, she won’t be joining us, today… Pity, I’m sure you’ll agree, but I expect we’ll get by, just about.”

Dean nods.

“In a short while, we’ll show you to your quarters—but before that—”

“We don’t have any intention of staying,” Dean says quickly. Crowley raises his eyebrows and sneers.

“Is that so?” He asks softly. Dean nods tersely. “Well, I’m afraid I simply can’t let that happen—I pride myself on being a good host; and there’s still _so much_ of our great Kingdom that you haven’t had a chance to see.”

“But—” Dean attempts to interrupt, but Crowley pays him no mind and merely continues speaking.

“In any case, I rather think we should get down to business—Samuel, I’m going to have to ask you to leave—”

Sam frowns at the Demon, but doesn’t protest—Dean considers doing so on his younger brother’s behalf, but Bobby’s hand brushes against Dean’s shoulder as a warning signal, and Dean settles himself.

“—Don’t worry, Sire; I’ve got someone to keep you company,” Crowley rolls his eyes slightly as he speaks, which only makes Sammy appear all the more indignant. Crowley gestures to the great door they came in through—Dean glances over and sees a girl who looks a few years older than Sam—perhaps about Dean’s age, if Demons age as Humans do—stood coolly against the doorframe. Her expression is confident and calm; she has dark hair and beautiful, even darker eyes, and flashes a kind of almost-smile in Sam’s direction. Her face is half shrouded by the shadow of the doorframe, half illuminated by the bright sunlight swimming lazily through the windows around them—the effect of this is really quite pretty, and Dean doesn’t miss the way that Sam blushes furiously at the look he is given by the Demon girl.

“Her name is Ruby. She can show you around the palace, if you wish—”

“Sam’s not going _anywhere_ out of my sights with a Demon—”

“King Dean, do you remember what I mentioned, earlier?” Crowley asks, coolly. “About how, if we wanted you injured—or indeed, worse—we would have already done so?”

Dean reluctantly nods, scowling at the Demon.

“Then let him leave.” Crowley bites, seating himself at the most decorated of all the chairs round the table, and gesturing for Dean, Bobby, and the advisers with them to follow suit. Sam awkwardly follows Ruby in leaving the hall. More Demons enter the room, now, and seat themselves beside and around Crowley looking eerily like a flock of hungry desert birds who have spotted a dying animal on the land just below them.

“So, Your Majesty—you stated that you had matters to discuss with us? Urgent matters?” Crowley prompts, leaning back on his opulent throne decorated with emerald greens and rich teals—it bears a stark contrast to the reds and oranges of the halls and buildings surrounding them; and upon further inspection Dean notes that the engravings upon the lavish chair are in fact further snakes winding their way around the item, etched onto the throne with perfect detail.

“Yes,” Dean nods, swallowing hard. “Hera is dropping out of the Demon war.”

“Oh?” Crowley raises his eyebrows. “And you expect us to simply _allow_ you to do this?” Crowley smirks slightly as he regards Dean with little more than curious condescension.

“It was never our war, to begin with,” Dean says as steadily as he can; eyebrows knotting together anxiously.

“You know the truth about the Angels, then.” Crowley rests his chin on the palm of his hand. “About Michael and Lucifer.”

“Yes,” Dean nods, swallowing. “And I don’t want to be in any part of it.”

“You realise that us simply _allowing_ you to leave the war, without repercussions, would be something of a _huge_ favour?”

“I do,” Dean confirms sombrely.

“And Demons aren’t exactly in the habit of doing favours for Humanity.”

“I understand that,” Dean nods. “But us withdrawing from the war means fewer of _your_ soldiers lost, too.”

“It’s not without its disadvantages, true…” Crowley muses softly, stroking at his short beard. “But the war isn’t any real strain on Demon resources; we have always been far superior in physical ability and therefore combat, no matter how great your numbers or your strategies. We… how should I put this? There’s no real way of putting it nicely, but… We were sort of always going easy on you? There, I said it.” He mock-sighs in relief. Dean scowls. “The war is… well, I suppose it’s a way of occupying our Angel Patriot’s time, and pulling out the weak links in our chain of forces—it may surprise you to know, Dean, that some Demons are more powerful than others, and in any case, _I_ am not without my orders…” Dean tenses up at this subtle mention of Lucifer’s person—“…And simply _allowing_ Hera to leave our war, scathe free, would be rather foolish—don’t you think?”

Dean says nothing in response.

“Our King will want to see and speak with you at some point soon. Within the next few months, most probably. It’ll become clear why when that day arrives.”

“Why can’t it become clear, now?” Dean frowns.

“With all due respect, Sire, you’re not exactly in the position to ask questions,” Crowley deadpans. “Wouldn’t you think?” He raises his eyebrows at Dean, waiting for the humiliation of Dean’s confirmation. Dean nods once, his face heating.

“As I was saying,” Crowley continues, a smug, triumphant smirk playing subtly across his thin lips, “In a few months’ time, Lucifer will want to speak with you again. And, believe it or not; you will most likely want to speak with him.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Dean retorts, voice flat.

“Yes, I don’t question that you do. But the two of you will meet, as you _must_ meet, and he will give you a choice; and whatever you choose will assist the Demon effort against the Angels, no end. And in return, you won’t have to fight us in the war, anymore.”

“What’s the choice he’s going to give me?” Dean asks suspiciously.

“That’s classified,” Crowley leers.

 _“What’s the choice?”_ Dean repeats forcefully. Crowley raises his eyebrows carelessly at Dean’s tone. “Tell me, or it’s not a deal.”

“Again, Dean, considering the fact that you seem pretty bloody desperate to be out of the war, I don’t much think you’re in the position to be attempting to bargain, either.”

Dean’s jaw clenches.

“So is it a deal or not, Your Majesty?” Crowley asks, his voice low and dangerous, leaning close towards Dean.

“But I don’t know what I’m getting _into—”_

“If you follow our instructions, none in your Kingdom will be hurt,” Crowley sighs as though Dean is being very awkward and slow about the whole ordeal.

“Dean, you don’t have to—” Bobby’s hand presses against Dean’s shoulder, and the Demon’s eyes flick aggressively over to Bobby’s face.

“Except he _does_ have to, doesn’t he?” Crowley scowls. “Hera’s strength is waning. It’s been a long fifteen years. And you’ve felt every one of them—haven’t you, Dean?”

The question is pointed and well-aimed. It hits Dean, square in the chest, and he trembles, unsure of how to respond.

“Like I said,” Crowley smiles, triumphantly, “no position to bargain.”

There is a pause punctuated only by the blood rushing in Dean’s ears.

“So, Dean?” Crowley raises his eyebrows questioningly at Dean. “Do we have a deal?”

“You say—no one in Hera will be harmed if I do as you say?”

“That is correct,” Crowley confirms. “We will give you instructions at a later date. For now, all you need to know is that Hera will be out of the Demon war entirely, and that they need not worry about it a moment longer. The fight will only include those it was only ever _meant_ to include.”

“Angels and Demons?”

“Angels and…” Crowley’s lips twitch upwards, “… _Demons,_ yes. That’s a nice way of putting it.”

Dean’s jaw clenches in bitter resolution.

“Fine,” He nods.

“Dean—” Bobby tries again, but Dean shrugs off the hand that attempts to rest on his shoulder.

“You heard the King,” Crowley leers. “And Dean isn’t a child anymore, Robert.”

Dean closes his eyes.

“We can leave the war, then?” He asks, his voice shaking. “Effective immediately?”

“Effective immediately,” Crowley nods softly. “We can sign the treaties tomorrow—for you, dear boy, the Demon wars are over.”

Dean sighs in relief.

Another pause.

“And now that all that mess—that _fifteen yearl_ ong mess—oh Dean, it must have hit you hard! That’s so nearly your whole _life!_ —Well, now that it’s sorted out, how about you dine with myself and my loyal consultants? I mean, we aren’t enemies anymore.” Crowley smiles. It curls something in Dean’s stomach to observe. “And if we’re not enemies, that sort of makes us _friends,_ doesn’t it?” Dean swallows. “Logically, I mean… So, what do you say, Sire? Dinner with me? A few days in our humble, homely Kingdom?”

Whatever this place could be described as, with Crowley in it, it’s hardly humble.

Dean shakes his head—he wants to be out of this Demon Kingdom as soon as possible—but Crowley is insistent. And it would be beyond foolish of Dean to assume that relations are anything less than strained, right now—so, as a guest, he doesn’t really have the option of refusal. Crowley leers triumphantly as soon as Dean is forced to concede.

Shortly after, they are shown their quarters. Dean’s room has lace-thin curtains and he frowns in confusion—the drapes in his own room back in Hera are so thick and heavy that they require two grown men to carry them—but then he reminds himself: they’re on the edge of a desert. His sheets seem fairly thick, all things considered, and are laced again with this serpent-winding pattern. It would almost be ornate and beautiful if Dean didn’t find it so creepy. In the setting sunlight, creeping through the window in streams of orange like cautious fish swimming through dusty waters, the crimson snakes on Dean’s bedsheets almost look as though they are moving.

It’s several hours before he is able to see Sam again; who returns to his own quarters from Dean-doesn’t-know-where, looking more than slightly distant, and, for want of a better word, lost.

“Sam,” Dean says, his voice frayed with relief.

“Dean,” Sam nods, his lips twitching upwards into a kind of half-convincing smile.

“Are you alright?” Dean asks, his face twisting in concern as he slips his hand to rest gently on his brother’s shoulder. He doesn’t expect Sam to brush his off, to shrug quite so carelessly, so dismissively.

“I’m fine,” Sam frowns. His pupils are blown wide and dark. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, I just thought—”

“Because we’re in a Demon Kingdom, I must be doing as crap as you?” Sam raises his eyebrows, almost defiantly at Dean. “Well, I hate to say it, Dean, but not all of us are as paranoid about the Demons as you are.”

Dean’s expression turns into a scowl.

“What the fuck—”

“News, boys,” Crowley strolls into the room, interrupting whatever it was Dean had lined up to respond to his brother with—which wasn’t actually _anything—_ “The relatively unfortunate kind, actually.”

Dean takes a shuddering breath. He is unsure why.

“What’s happened?” He asks.

“The ruling family of Dione—”

“The Talbots?”

“Those are the ones, yes,” Crowley nods. “Well, I’ve just received word that King Talbot has passed away. Under slightly suspicious circumstances… which nobody really seems to be commenting on—but that’s just one of those things, I suppose. I don’t _actually_ think his people are particularly upset about seeing him go.”

“But you are?” Dean frowns.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Crowley returns Dean’s expression as he answers his question. “We were very closely allied with Dione while their King was alive, and now, it is questionable whether such ties will remain.”

“What makes you say that?”

“They have a new ruler, now,” Crowley answers. “A Queen—his daughter. Soon to be the Crowned Queen Bela.”

“And we should care about this, because?”

“Why, because you’ll be joining us in our visit over to Dione to mourn with them, in just a few days’ time.”

Dean’s frown hardens.

“And why the _fuck_ would we do that?”

“We’re allies now, Dean,” Crowley sneers. “It’s odd, to be sure, but that’s what we’ve just become, thanks to your surrender.”

“It wasn’t surrender—”

“Please, Dean,” Crowley chuckles. “Let it be.”

Dean’s jaw clenches.

“How long will the visit take?” He asks.

“A few days. Not to worry. Hera will have its outrageously young and inexperienced King back, soon enough.”

“I might be young, but I’m not—”

“Oh, and terrified,” Crowley adds, interrupting Dean. “I left out _terrified_ King.”

Crowley leaves before Dean can snap out a response. The dinner that night is eaten in a dining hall with a long and unnaturally thin table placed simply in the middle. Crowley, of course, sits at the head, a few of his cronies surrounding him. They all laugh loudly and speak to one another in their own language.

Dean sits a little way down, feeling awfully unwelcome, staring at his plate and pushing the new and alien looking food around with the tip of his fork. He doesn’t feel hungry. If they were in any happier circumstances, either Bobby or Sam would make a joking comment about how very unusual this behaviour was of Dean—but they’re not, and so nothing is said. Bobby sits next to Dean.

Sammy and the Demon girl—Ruby—are sat, engaged in deep conversation together. Dean glances furtively over to them at every moment; and though he can’t make out his brother’s face, something about him seems looser, freer, les constrained than Dean can ever remember seeing him. His heart grinds itself into a stone inside his chest.

The few days before the journey are punctuated by Sam’s absence—Dean doesn’t know where his brother is going, or what he’s doing.

He spends the journey to Dione in solitude—at several points, Bobby offers to stay with him, but Dean just barks that he wants to be alone, and Bobby leaves, shaking his head each time.

The Demon ships vastly are different to those of Hera’s. Their sails are thin and firm and do not billow in the wind as Human ships’ do. The wood that composes the boats is so dark it is almost black, the ships seem flatter and longer and there are no oars in sight, pounding into the sea to press the ships forward. Instead they glide along the water in smooth, silent precision, delicate and understated as seabirds. Dean is lost as to how they are sailing so quickly across the wide teal ocean. He sleeps and makes plans over most of the journey, in the time it takes to arrive to Dione—the hours that are not spent doing this are spent brooding over his brother’s new found companionship amongst the Demons.

When they arrive, Dean has all but bottled up his feelings of resentment and envy towards the Demons with whom Sam has spent the majority of his time on the journey. Not enough, however, that he can ignore the biting anger that sparks through him when he spots his brother, deep in conversation with the dark haired, pretty Demon girl, Ruby, who wears the clothes of men and speaks as though she is inviting those who listen to her into her bed.

Throughout both the welcomes into Dione and the crowning itself, Dean hears mumbling. Whispers. Queen Bela did not earn her right to the throne. Queen Bela does not deserve her father’s crown. The King died in his sleep, but the physicians found poison in his ear. His wife’s carriage had been thrown of its track, and yet the reigns of the horse had been tampered with so that the animal could not be made to turn in a particular direction. The King and Queen’s most loyal advisors died together by the fire; cuts across their throats so deep one could see their tongues; blood seeping across the stone castle floor and appearing black in the flickering firelight. Queen Bela did not cry at her father’s funeral, nor did she cry when visiting her mother’s grave with other, distant relatives. Her rule has been unjustly earned, and the King and Queen were most deceitfully slain. Whispers, everywhere.

Acid churns in Dean’s stomach.

And another thing Dean finds odd: the people of the Kingdom—the servants, the cooks and aids; the merchants and peasants in the surrounding towns of the city, all seem _relieved, happy,_ that there is a new monarch on the throne. But why would they be happy—and how _could_ they be?

If, as the rumours suggest, Queen Talbot _did_ kill her father and mother, then why are the people so happy to see her being the next to the throne? Dean bites the inside of his mouth throughout the entirety of the ceremony—partially out of confusion, but mainly out of the bitter jealousy he feels toward the Demons who seem to have so thoroughly won his brother’s affection.

The end of the crowning apparently calls for another round of celebrations. Dean resists the urge to wrinkle his nose at the conceitedness of it all—he recalls how much he disliked holding celebrations to revel in his own crowning. He recalls how much he has disliked _everything_ that has come with his being royalty. He sits at the edge of the hall at Dione, not joining in the merriment as everyone else seems insistent upon doing. He can hear the sea lapping at the cliffs outside the castle, a soft, white noise, simmering underneath the clamour of music and raised voices.

“King Dean,” An overly soft, well-spoken voice, with an accent not unlike that which Dean has heard upon the tongues of many Demons—including Crowley—rouses Dean from his thoughts. He looks up and resists the urge to scowl as he is met by the sight of Dione’s new Queen.

“Queen Bela,” Dean nods his head, out of what little respect he can muster, and attempts to brush Talbot aside by looking pointedly away from her.

He hears something like a mirthful snort, and glances up, scowling, to the Queen’s face; confused to see her looking almost triumphant as she gazes down at Dean with carelessly disguised vindictive amusement.

“Can I help you?” He raises his eyebrows in Talbot’s direction, biting down on the urge to say something far ruder.

“They’d said you’d grown distant and cold since your father’s death, Winchester, but I had no idea you’d also be so _condemnatory—_ and particularly when you haven’t even heard the first _chapter_ of my story _.”_

“Well, people also seem to be saying an awful lot of _condemnatory_ things about the way in which your parents died.”

“Oh, many would say their passing was tragic,” Bela sighs whimsically, sitting down beside Dean with a dignified grace Dean has seen in countless noblewomen.

“It sounds as though it was _convenient_ for you,” Dean bites flatly.

“Are you implying that I had something to do with their deaths?” Bela asks, nonchalantly. She raises her eyebrows slightly at Dean, giving away nothing but casual curiosity, a small, subtle smile playing across her composed features.

“I’m not _implying_ anything—”

“It rather sounds like you are,” Bela shrugs. She still sounds careless, and looks out, across the hall of her own castle, something distant and pensive filling her eyes. The air around them smells faintly like salt. Everything about Dione is far more subtle than Hera; far more understated. The clothing is lighter and softer and less grand, but no less impressive, the castle paler, more delicate; set aside the windy sea with waves licking at the cliffs. “But you’re absolutely right, of course. My father died in his bed, but not in his sleep. There was no-one around. Supposedly. My mother died a mere day after my father, in a carriage crash in which the innocent driver—with whom the King and Queen’s killer had no quarrel—survived. It _does_ sound almost too good to be true.”

“So you’re admitting it’s pretty fucking dubious?” Dean asks.

“My parents, the previous King and Queen of Dione, are lost,” Bela says, seemingly ignoring Dean’s question. She turns back to face Dean, flicking a wayward streak of her light brown hair, faintly waved, off her shoulders as she does so. And then she speaks again, her face triumphant and relieved and a little bit torn as she leans in, closer to Dean, to say these next words far more quietly than the rest of their conversation has been:

_“And I killed them.”_

Dean recoils in disgust.

His lip curls as he glares at Bela. How can she live with the knowledge that she _killed_ her own blood?!

“You’re going to hell,” He spits, his teeth gritting. Tears have almost filled his eyes, and he knows for a fact that it’s because he’s thinking of his _own_ parent’s deaths, of how he would give anything, right now, to see them again, to have them by his side, once more—

“We’re all going to hell, Dean,” Bela replies matter-of-factly, as though she is talking to a child. “Might as well enjoy the ride.”

“You’re disgusting,” Dean says, before thinking. Not that he regrets saying it. It’s true.

Bela’s face betrays some emotion, this time. Her lip curls and she withdraws, sitting back a bit from Dean, as though she is just as revolted by him as he is by her.

“I’m not saying I’m not a twisted person, Winchester,” her expression hardens significantly. “But if you dare look at me as though I am anything less than you, again, I will declare war on you and all your allied lands and prove still more of my worth through bloodshed.”

“I don’t think _anyone_ can prove their worth through bloodshed,” Dean finds himself saying. Fuck. He’s starting to sound like Cas.

Thinking about the Angel sends a stab of pain right into his chest. He looks down, his eyes watering.

“Then let me rephrase,” Bela says, clearly utterly unphased. “You may have your odd little ‘blood brothers’ thing going on with _your_ family; where you all stick together no matter what is thrown your way; where it could be you and your kin versus the world and you still wouldn’t back down—but some of us can’t afford to think that way. Myself included. And that certainly doesn’t make me any worse of a person than you.”

“What do you mean?” Dean frowns.

“My father deserved to die,” Bela says plainly, her face betraying only a spark of emotion. “For one thing, look around you. Look at the relief flooding the features of all my people, still, in the knowledge that their once-oppressive King is dead.”

“And your mother?”

“My mother, also,” Bela’s face hardens significantly. “And it wasn’t _just_ for the people’s good.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It was for my good, too.”

“That reeks of selfishness,” Dean frowns—although he isn’t sure why on earth he should be surprised. As far as he can tell, Bela _is_ selfish.

“Had I stayed in Dione, and they lived, I am quite sure I would have died. My mother could be _bad_ —but my father—my father was worse. I couldn’t leave and let the people suffer—and besides, where would I go? Dione and Corinna have been at war on and off for decades. Hera, too. And was I to sail into Demon territory? But had I stayed, and they continued living, my father would have continued—” Bela breaks off. For the first time, she looks down. Dean’s insides twist in concern, and for the first time in their conversation, he notices how many years younger than him Bela is.

“—It’s beside the point,” She shrugs. “All that you need to know is that a once careless woman in the face of the inconceivable cruelty of her husband toward her own daughter is now dead, and that an infinitely worse man is burning in hell, too.”

“Maybe your mother didn’t—”

“She knew,” Bela says, shortly. She is looking out ahead of her, at the hall, again. “She even participated, in her own sort of way. Her way was more through cruel jokes and kicks and sneers and beatings when I told her the truth; never hugging me again after I first tried to confide in her, and refusing to dine with me—meaning I would be left _alone_ with…” She trails off, her voice hinting for the briefest of moments at a tremor. “But more importantly; through all my father’s admittedly far worse crimes towards me, she didn’t _stop him.”_

“I’m sorry—” Dean stammers, but Bela shrugs him off, lip curling.

“As you said; the circumstances of their death are of rather a lot of convenience to me—and now that I’m Queen of Dione, I intend my rule to be far removed from that of my father’s. And a far more active one.”

“What do you mean by that?” Dean frowns.

“Other than being a ruler of these people,” Bela gestures to the crowd in front of her. “I’ve managed to start up a small business getting hold of items for those rich enough to seek my services. I started it up back when my parents were alive—it was sort of an attempt to earn enough riches to get me out of here—but my funds far exceeded that; and before I knew it, _everybody_ wanted me to claim this or that priceless item for them.”

Dean’s face sets again.

“So you’re given this opportunity for a fresh start—your parents are dead, everything’s looking up again, you’re a _monarch_ and one of the most powerful women in the Four Earthly Kingdoms and this is what you decide to do with it? You become a thief?”

“I procure unique items for a select clientele,” Bela’s lips twist upwards into something almost smug and condescending.

“Yeah,” Dean finds himself gritting his teeth. “A thief.”

Bela’s expression remains frustratingly calm and amused. She shakes her head.

“No, a _great_ thief.”

And with that, the new crowned Queen of Dione rises, Dean left utterly speechless, and goes to speak with a crowd of unfamiliar looking Demons; with whom she seems fairly well acquainted. Dean scowls and returns to his drink.

 

…

 

Sam is oddly reluctant to actually return home. He doesn’t speak much for the next few weeks. He spends most of his time writing—Dean doesn’t know where it is he’s sending his letters or who it is they are intended to—all it is that he _does_ know is that Sam’s skin is paling; turning waxy and pasty, dark circles are forming under his eyes.

Sammy has nightmares that echo through the walls. He grows paranoid yet more alert, somehow able to anticipate moments ahead of their happening; his tongue grows sharper, his attitude more sullen and bitter.

Dean’s thoughts grow more and more troubled by the day—he wants to know exactly _what_ kind of deal it was he latched onto when he pulled out of the Demon war; but the only contact he’s received from the Demons is a letter of Crowley’s well-wishes upon their arrival home, stating that all Demon troops had withdrawn from the Human battlegrounds, and that Hera’s soldiers were returning home.

 “Excuse me, My Lord—” Dean glances up. He’s been sat at the table in one of the chambers of the castle for almost three hours, now. He’d said he was going to be looking over the agreement he’d drawn up with the Demons. He’d been lying—there’s almost nothing _to_ look over, so vague are their agreements. At the door now is one of the knights of the Kingdom—Dean vaguely recognises him. He _definitely_ does. This is one of the knights that was in Dean’s brigade when he’d been so badly fucked up in the Demon war. This is one of the handful of survivors—Dean’s head is sent reeling with guilt at the sight of him.

 “—Your brother was wondering if you were feeling alright.”

The man is several years older than Dean. He is tall; brown haired and scruffy-bearded, he speaks in a slow, calming drawl, his manner and appearance obviously of the Hill Tribes of the North.

“And he sent a knight to check up on me, instead of coming down himself?” Dean raises his eyebrows at the bearded man, who presses his lips together.

“He said you’ve been very withdrawn, of late.”

“He’s one to talk,” Dean scoffs bitterly, looking back down at the parchment in front of him.

The man is silent a moment at the doorway, before apparently hardening his resolve enough to actually step inside the room. Dean flicks his eyes up to meet the knight’s gaze, again.

“With all due respect, My Lord, I think he’s worried about you; and I think he has a right to be.”

Dean is taken aback by the knight’s tone. He straightens up where he sits, tilting his head to the side.

“What is your name, soldier?” Dean asks. The man’s face instantly heats, and Dean watches as the guard’s hands twitch uncomfortably from where they are held, by his sides.

“Lafitte—Benny—sorry, Benjamin Lafitte.”

“Benny,” Dean says, without thinking. “You were in my unit, in the Demon war, weren’t you?”

“I served under you, yes, My Lord,” The knight bows his head, which ruffles Dean.

“I’m sorry,” Dean sighs. The knight looks back up, perturbed.

“What for, My Lord?”

“For fucking up,” Dean laughs hollowly. He’s being improper; knows this isn’t how he should carry himself when around knights, but he doesn’t care. He’s tired of everything. He’s tired and alone.

“You didn’t fuck up, Sire,” Benny shakes his head. “You were given incorrect information—”

“I should’ve known what to do,” Dean swallows. “You were all my responsibility— _my_ men—it’s not even the first time that had happened.” He rubs his face with the palm of his hand. “I’m sorry,” He shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m troubling you with all this. You don’t want to hear it—go; tell Sammy I’m fine. Tell him I’ll be dining with him, tonight, if that’s what he’d like.”

“It’s no trouble—” The knight seems to find himself saying, but he cuts himself off, pressing his lips together for a short moment and balling his fists. “Yes, My Lord. I’ll do that.”

“And Benny—Lafitte—” Dean shakes his head again. “Benny,” He decides, watching as the knight stops at the door. “You could come back here, when you’re done? I mean, if you want to. I could use the company.” Dean laughs emptily again, embarrassed, but he notes that the man’s lips twitch upward, and he bows his head once again, a short gesture, before leaving.

Benny returns shortly after that; a loose, calming smile spread lopsidedly across his features.

“Your brother said that he’s looking forward to it.” The knight states, his expression respectful yet warm. Something pained with longing flares brightly inside of Dean’s chest.

Dean nods, taking a deep breath through his teeth.

“Thank you,” He attempts a smile—why is it that the action sets a jagged pain searing across his heart? “Can you—” Dean’s voice falters. “Can you stay?” He asks. He watches as the knight’s lips quirk upwards yet again.

“I already said I would, didn’t I?” He laughs, the sound warm and low.

Dean resists the urge to close his eyes and imagine that the sound came from the pink lips of Castiel.

“Any particular reason that you need the company?” The knight asks with a frown. Dean snorts out a despondent laugh before he can stop himself.

“Yes,” He admits, honestly. “My head feels too big a place to be left alone in.”

Benny Laffite’s soft frown winds further across his features.

“Well, that’s no good,” He hums gently.

“No,” Dean shakes his head, staring back down at the great oak table. “Would you come sit with me?”

“Of course,” Benny nods, taking a few steps forward as his expression grows a little more concerned and uneasy. “But I feel I must remind you, Your Majesty, that in the eyes of propriety perhaps I should—”

“Screw propriety,” Dean bites, a little harsher than he had perhaps intended. “Sorry,” He shakes his head quickly, reprimanding himself internally for the slightly taken aback look that has now smeared itself across Benny’s features. “I didn’t—”

“It’s fine.” Benny shakes his head, something like amusement beginning to etch across his lips. He steps forward and pulls out one of the chairs opposite Dean. “You’ve had a rough time of it lately,” He states, sitting down and crossing his arms onto the table.

“That’s not an excuse for being an ass,” Dean shakes his head, still frowning. Benny’s lips twitch a little further upwards.

“You’re King,” Benny shrugs again. “You can speak to me however you like.”

Dean resists the urge to groan in frustration.

“Then take it that I want to speak to all of my subjects with respect.” Dean sighs.

Laffite’s eyes are thoughtful as they graze over Dean’s body.

“I always thought you were quite something, you know. When you were made captain of our legion—there was something about you. And at your father’s funeral—and the day you were crowned King, even in the way you run the daily affairs of the castle—the way you speak to your subjects. Each of your actions rings with it.”

Dean frowns. “Rings with what?”

“Humility,” Benny states, leaning forward only marginally in his seat.

“I don’t know—” Dean looks down, but Benny barks out a laugh that snaps the young King’s gaze back up to his subject’s face.

“You realise you’re only proving my point?” Benny chuckles, his voice wrapped with warmth. The way that he speaks—that soft, slow drawl of his voice and the long way he says his vowels has Dean breathing soft and slow, his muscles relaxing slowly.

“You served as a knight while my father was alive?” Dean asks, looking up at the man again. Benny nods so softly that the motion is almost unnoticeable.

“Yes,” He confirms. Dean swallows.

“What was he like? As a superior? Was he kind? Was he respectful?”

“He wasn’t much like you,” Benny admits, looking down for the first time in their conversation. “And that’s not to say—but he was…” Benny sighs gently through his nose. “…Very different from yourself.” Dean worries at his lip. “Very different indeed.”

There is a silence for a moment.

“What do you mean by that?” Dean asks. Benny glances back up at his King.

“I mean,” He presses his lips together. “That you needn’t worry about living up to your father’s standards. He was one thing, and you’re another. You don’t have to be the same kind of ruler as him—but at the same time, you mustn’t concern yourself with setting yourself apart completely from him.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it would be exhausting, and for a time, your father was one of the greatest rulers this land had ever seen.”

“For a time?”

“Before the death of your mother,” Benny says simply. Dean looks down. He should have expected that response.

“And what if I _do_ want to set myself apart from him, completely?” He asks. Benny rubs a calloused hand across the short beard stretched across his jaw.

“Then I suppose that’d be your choice,” He shrugs. “And who am I to try to stop you?”

Dean nods slowly, closing his eyes a moment.

“You’re pretty wise, you know.”

“Wise for a knight,” Benny smirks subtly.

“For anyone.” Dean corrects, chuckling softly despite the constant sense of despondency that has set itself over his heart over the past few months.

“Well, that’s very kind of you, Your Majesty—”

“Dean.”

“What?” Benny frowns.

“Please call me Dean,” Dean sighs. “I’m so tired of being treated with so much—cautious respect.”

“It’s only cautious because we’re worried about you,” Benny speaks quietly, as though he’s afraid of scaring Dean off, or provoking him to anger. Is it bad that his tone hurts Dean? “And respectful, simply because you’ve earned it.”

“I suppose that’s something.” Dean groans, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm, wearily.

“It is,” Benny smiles. “Give yourself credit where it’s due.” He pauses a moment, before adding, “Dean,” With a soft, slightly skewed smile. Dean’s gaze snaps back up to the knights face.

“Thank you—” Dean finds himself laughing breathlessly. The knight holds up his palm and chuckles, easy and low.

“That’s fine, Your Majesty. _Dean_ ,” He corrects himself.

“Do you think I’ve been a good King so far, Benny?”

“On what are we judging ‘good’?”

“By any standard of the word.”

Benny pauses a moment. Dean awaits his response with baited breath, oddly hungry for reassurance and approval.

“You’ve acted, as far as I can tell, only for the good of your people. Dropping out of the Demon war—” Benny sighs. “It was a tough call, and maybe pretty rough on you, but I think it was a wise decision.”

“I’m starting to think it might not have been,” Dean sighs, fumbling with his hands nervously.

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know—” Dean groans softly, a quiet mark of his own exhaustion, “I’m starting to ask myself what the cost was.”

“They didn’t specify?” Benny frowns.

“No,” Dean shakes his head, shame burning at his features. “But I was so desperate to get out at the time, I didn’t bother pressing for it—I was desperate—I was…” He trails off, his voice breaking. “I was a fool,” He admits.

“Not a fool,” Benny counters. “Determined to pull your people out of something that would inevitably have destroyed our Kingdom.”

Dean glances back up.

“You really think so?”

“We were convinced that Hera was destined to fall, if we were not to pull out of the war,” Benny states. “When you did—the relief throughout the city—throughout the Kingdom—it was palpable. The people were overjoyed with happiness.”

“We should have dropped out years ago,” Dean sighs. “The entire thing was a mistake.”

“It is what it is,” Benny shrugs. “We’ll never know exactly how things would have panned out had your father pulled out—or never declared war, to begin with. But your subjects are all relieved that you _did,_ despite what it cost. And they love you for it.”

“The problem is, I’m not exactly sure what it _did_ cost.”

Dean runs a tired hand though his hair.

“No matter what, Your Majesty, you’ll have me. And that’s a promise. I’ll be by your side, as your knight, whatever happens.”

Dean’s insides tremble.

It’s not the first time that promise has been made to him.

Nonetheless, he thanks the knight and excuses himself, his heart aching with the familiar burning stab of regret and loss and resentment that has been drowning him for what feels like years, now.

He makes his way up to his brother’s quarters, ready to knock on Sam’s door, but stops himself moments before his knuckles make contact with the thick wood of the frame—he hears muffled voices coming from his brother’s room; one of which he recognises as Sammy’s. But the other one?

Dean frowns. It isn’t a voice he’s heard before—not a voice of any of the servants nor of his brother’s guards—it’s unfamiliar and soft and almost _too_ tender and the very sound of it causes something hard and defensive to curl inside of Dean’s heart.

 _“It’ll be_ soon, _Sammy, soon, don’t you worry—”_

 _Sammy_? Dean scowls. Nobody calls his brother this name, aside from himself. _Nobody_. Nobody is _allowed_ to—something bitterly jealous churns up inside of his gut.

“I know, but—”

 _“There’s a plan, remember?”_ The voice hisses. Dean’s jaw clenches at the sound. _“Are you going to keep to it?”_

“Of course—” Dean’s brother sounds indignant. “I just—I miss you. I _need_ you, I—”

 _“I know.”_ The voice has gone soft again. _“But you’ll have me again, soon. All of it, Sammy, you’ll have all of it. Everything you want, everything you need, everything you could ever imagine—you’ll be_ happy _—”_

Dean has heard enough—his knuckles rap against the door as he grinds his teeth hard enough that the sound echoes around his skull.

“I have to go—” Sam stutters quietly—Dean hears the sound of him fumbling around in his room, something falling onto the floor, before he swings open the door, stepping inbetween it and his room, so that Dean is unable to see the insides of Sam’s quarters.

“—Dean,” He smiles—is it just Dean, or does the smile look fake? He swallows hard. “Dinner, right?”

“Who were you talking to?” Dean asks, stepping to the side to stop his brother from being able to tread around him; blocking any route of escape Sam may desire.

“—No-one—” Sam stammers, but Dean pulls an unconvinced face. “—What are you talking about?”

“You _know_ what I’m talking about, Sammy—”

“No I don’t!” Sam exclaims, frowning as he attempts to step round Dean again. “Stop it! You’ve been acting weird for _weeks—”_

“You’re one to talk!” Dean shouts back. Sammy’s jaw sets hard.

“It’s not my fault that you’re never willing to talk, Dean. I’ve been here—for months, I’ve been begging for you to speak to me, to tell me _anything—_ to talk to me like we used to—is it so bad that I want company of my own? You’re always so— _distant—_ you’re like father, you’re—”

Sammy cuts himself off and attempts to slam the door, but Dean presses his forearm up against it and slips his foot inbetween the door and the frame, successfully stopping this attempt at shutting him out. He winces at the pain that the force of the door caused on his foot and arm.

“—Sammy—” He tries. “I know you miss our father—”

“I don’t miss father, Dean,” Sam frowns from where he has slumped on the floor, his eyes glittering with the press of tears. “I never _knew_ him. The man I knew as father wasn’t what you’ve always told me he used to be—he was barely even a ghost of him—and you _idolised_ the man, and I never knew why! ‘Cause I was the little brother whose fault it was his wife was dead! He _never_ cared about me after that!”

“That’s not true!” Dean shouts.

“That’s what it _felt_ like!” Sammy replies, his voice raising as the tears slip onto his face. “It was my fault our mother died, it was my fault he regressed like he did, it was my fault _he_ died _—”_ His voice breaks off with tears.

“That’s not true at all,” Dean shakes his head, his hands trembling. He watches as Sam glances over to something in the corner of the room. He looks over to where is brother is staring. He frowns.

“Sammy,” He says slowly, heart sinking inexplicably. “What is that?”

He glances back to his brother, who has frozen, his face a burning red.

“Sammy,” He repeats—but he doesn’t need to repeat the question; because Dean knows witchcraft when he sees it, and he can recognise the blood spilled from the silver goblet on the floor—and he _knows_ that this is how many Demons communicate—

“Sammy, what have you done?” Dean asks, his voice breaking off in his throat, so hoarse that it is barely audible.

Dean’s brother stares at the ground. His hands are shaking in the same way that Dean’s do whenever he is nervous, whenever he is terrified and can no longer contain himself, nor his emotions. Sam swallows hard, attempting to quell the tears pressing at his eyes. Dean’s gut twists as he thinks of how similar he and his brother are. Of how Sammy is all he has left.

“—I,” Dean’s brother tries, but words fail him for a moment and his throat is left sounding ragged and raw. “—In Heolster—I—there was a—” Sammy stares at his shaking hands, his eyes beading with tears. Dean wants to reach out, to touch, to comfort his brother—but something mistrusting and terrified curling inside his heart is telling him—no, _begging_ him—to remain at a distance from his brother. Something like a sense of betrayal is thrumming thickly through him, making him feel nauseated, and he takes a deep, steadying breath.

“A what, Sam?”

“I fell in love.” Sam blurts out, his gaze snapping back up to Dean’s face. Dean is caught between the urge to laugh and shout at his brother.

“You fell in love?” Dean repeats incredulously.

“Is it that ridiculous?” Sam glares, his frame shaking. “—You fell in love with Cas—”

Dean’s jaw clenches. He balls his fist.

“Don’t fucking _talk_ about him, Sam,” He bites. “Don’t you fucking dare—how _dare_ you—”

“You were in love with him, once!” Sammy shouts, his eyes clouding over with another sheen of tears. “You loved him! And you love him now! And you didn’t _ever_ tell me what it was that happened between the two of you, that made you cancel the engagement—you don’t tell me anything! But you know what, Dean? You don’t even need to—I know you well enough—I _know_ you’re still in love with him—!”

“Enough!” Dean bellows, squeezing his closed fist so tightly his nails threaten to draw blood from the palm of his hand. He glares at Sam’s face, saturated with emotion.

“Who are _you_ to say whether I love someone, or not…” Sam mutters bitterly, his eyes flitting pointedly yet meekly away from Dean.

“Who am _I—?”_ Dean scowls incredulously. “Who are _you_ to fall in love with someone you can’t have spent more than a few _days_ with!”

“We’ve spoken since then—”

“Yes, through witchcraft, apparently!” Dean shouts, the magma burning in his blood again.

“It’s not witchcraft to them, Dean! It’s just how they talk—”

“And what, you’re one of them, now?!” Dean narrows his eyes, raising his voice still louder. Sam’s jaw clenches and he glares at the floor.

“My whole life, Dean—I haven’t fitted in—you _know_ I haven’t.” Sam’s voice has gone quiet again. It fractures in his throat as he stares at the ground. “There’s something _wrong_ with me—you know whenever we were told those bedtime stories, as children? I saw _myself_ in the monster. I knew that in some way, I _was_ the monster.”

“What do you mean by that?” Dean wrinkles his nose. “Where the hell are you going with this?!”

“Just listen, Dean, please!” Sam nearly sobs now, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “—I’m a monster—I’m one of them, okay? Except, with them, I’m _not_ a monster, anymore. I’m normal. And I’ll never be that, as long as I’m here.”

“What the fuck are you talking—” Dean squints at his brother, lost. “Who’s ‘they’? What are you talking about, Sammy?”

“The Demons!” Sam raises his voice, looking back up to Dean. “Maybe I’m one of them—maybe I was always _meant_ to be—and maybe I belong with them! When I never belonged here—I mean, that’d explain all of it, wouldn’t it?”

“Explain what?!”

“My dreams! My nightmares!”

“Everyone has nightmares, Sam,” Dean sighs, running an exhausted hand through his hair.

“Not the way I have them—” Sam shakes his head. “Does everyone else predict stuff? Do they see what’s coming? The good, and the bad?”

“What—”

“I saw father dying, Dean— _months_ before it happened—maybe even _years—”_

“That’s not possible—”

“Except maybe it is,” Sam stands, looking almost desperate, now. “I mean—it obviously is—I’m living proof—but seers exist, right? Maybe I’m one of them?”

“That’s not how our seers work, and you know it—”

“Exactly!” Sam exclaims. “They work with consulting the dead and the lost spirits—it’s all conscious effort. They work at their gifts for years! But I’ve always had this! I’ve never developed it—and I’ve never even been able to acknowledge it—but if it’s not how _our_ seers work, what’s to say it’s not how _other_ seers work? I mean the Angel ones—and the Demon ones—who says I’m not like any of them? Because Ruby _said_ that some Demons see the future in their dreams—”

 _“Ruby?!”_ Dean repeats, spitting out his words. Sam visibly deflates, his face falling, his eyes filling with fear. “The Demon who showed you around on our first day in Heolster? She’s the one who’s fed you all this _poison?!”_

“It’s not poison, Dean—” Sam shakes his head. “—I trust her—”

“She’s the one you think you’re in love with,” Dean says slowly, a dark realisation dawning over him. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

“I don’t _think_ I’m in love—”

“You don’t _know_ what love is _,_ Sam!”

“Oh, and you do?!” Sam exclaims, his face going red with anger. “You _lost_ Cas! You finished things with him! You don’t have any idea—”

Dean has heard enough. He can see only red, pulsing red matching the beats of his own furious heart against his ribcage. He turns and punches the cold stone wall of Sam’s room before storming out of the room. His right hand is shaking; blood dripping from his knuckles—he is sure he has broken several of his fingers, perhaps even a number of the bones in the rest of his hand—pain throbs through him—but it does nothing to match the fractured ache of his heart.

Sammy is leaving him. Sammy is planning on leaving him, and Dean is going to be all alone. He’ll have nothing. He’ll have no-one.

That evening, Dean is surprised when his brother joins him in the dining hall for their evening meal. He glances nervously up at Sammy, whose face is swollen with tears, as he pulls out a chair opposite Dean and worries at his lip. He doesn’t look up at Dean.

There is a fractured silence marked only by the shuffling feet of servants and the scrape of Sam’s chair against the stone floor as he pulls it closer to the table.

“You were going to leave, weren’t you?” Dean asks, shattering into the quiet. He looks back up to his brother, who stares pointedly at his meal, prodding the meat around his place instead of meeting Dean’s gaze. He doesn’t respond. Dean sighs. “Leave us,” He says to the servants standing a way behind him, who nod, murmuring confirmation, and bow before exiting. Sam’s frame has tensed considerably. “You were planning on leaving.” Dean states. “Without another word—or pretty much just so. That was your plan, wasn’t it?”

Sam’s jaw clenches.

“Yes.” He admits. “—But it’s not like that—”

“How could it _not_ be that?!”

“I wasn’t abandoning you—”

“—You were going to _leave_ me, Sammy!” Dean exclaims. Hot and humiliating tears press at the backs of his eyes. “—You were going to leave me all alone when you _know_ you’re all I have—how is that not abandoning me?!—How can you—”

“It’s not my fault Cas left, Dean!” Sam bangs his hand onto the table, causing the carafe of wine placed there to tremble threateningly. “You can’t pressure me into staying—that’s not fair—and you know I’m not all you have! You have Ellen and Bobby and Jo—and for years, I thought you were gonna leave _me,_ for the Angels! And I didn’t kick up a fuss! I didn’t act like a child, because I wanted you to be _happy!”_ Sam exclaims, tears filling his eyes, too.

“I was _never_ gonna leave you!” Dean shouts. “Cas was going to live a mortal life and come down here and stay with us and you weren’t gonna have to be alone—”

“So how on _earth_ could you have _ever_ questioned whether or not he loved you?!” Sammy shouts, his voice tearing in his throat, and Dean’s gaze snaps back up to his brothers face, something tearing inside of him.

 _Oh_.

Sam’s question leaves him stumped. Something cold and lonely and _horrified_ creeps into his heart. Could Cas have actually…? No, certainly not—

“I don’t need you making me feel guilty, Dean!” Sam’s expression trembles and his face grows wet from tears. “Father did it enough—I felt like a _monster—_ I felt like everything, _everything_ was my fault—and you—you were the perfect son, the one who always got it right and always did as daddy told him to—and I was the one whose fault it was mother _died—”_

Dean swallows hard, his hands trembling, and he tries to speak up—to tell Sammy he’s wrong, that everything he’s saying is wrong—to be the big brother he knows he’s _supposed_ to be, but he _can’t—_ because words are caught in his throat and his tongue is trapped in his jaw like it is an animal trap and all he can do is watch as his brother continues sobbing and shouting; as realisation continues swirling around Dean’s head like a murky storm cloud and inside of Dean’s chest his heart starts breaking all over again.

“—Don’t be disappointed in me, too, Dean—I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime—I’ve had enough of it from _father—”_

Dean finds his words, now. He finds them as Sam’s body trembles and his eyes well up with another swell of tears. Something hard and resolute coarsens inside the cage of Dean’s chest.

“Sam, our father was never disappointed in you.” Dean looks up into his brother’s eyes. His gaze feels hard, almost defiant, as he glares at his brother. It is more broken—heartbroken—than anything else. “Never.” He swallows, shakes his head, raises his eyebrows at his brother and hardens his stare.

Dean was always the bad son. _Is_ the bad son.

He can’t get anything right. He can’t protect his brother when he is supposed to. He wasn’t strong enough or brave enough—or idealistic enough—when he needed to be. He is too easily intimidated, too jealous and scared—Dean is weak and he is a disappointment and simply _alone_. He’s going to die alone. He’s a bad son— _the_ bad son. But he can do right by Sammy, this time. He can. He will.

 

…

 

He writes to Crowley that evening. He begs for the Demon Sam is in love with to be allowed to come to Hera—for his brother to not have to leave him. He begs for Crowley to explain what’s happening— _how_ it happened—how it is that his brother fell in love with a Demon and why it is his face has grown paler and paler by the day; why there are dark circles underneath his eyes and Sam is looking increasingly as though he is made of wax. His reply comes a week later.

_Come visit Heolster. We’ll discuss more there. I’ll explain why it is dear Sammy is looking quite so poorly. Why his temper is so short. Why he’s so desperate to return._

_I_ do _hate to gloat, Dean, but I did say you’d come crawling back to our dear little Kingdom with your tail between your legs._

Dean bites the inside of his mouth and pores over the blunt letter for what feels like an age. His gaze snaps up to the door when he hears a soft, confident knock at it.

“Enter,” His voice trembles—but at the sight of Benny, something inside of Dean relaxes. “—Benny—” He shakes, standing. The knight steps, his expression concerned, closer toward Dean.

“Are you well, Sire?” Benny’s hands come to slip under Dean’s forearms, supporting him softly, and Dean wants to collapse but he also wants to bury his body in the older man, to have Benny engulf him entirely—but he wants _Cas,_ he wants Cas back and a terrified sob breaks his lips. “Dean?” Benny asks, tilting the King’s chin up to have him looking in the taller man’s face. Dean trembles again with impropriety and desperation doing battle within him.

“—I have to—come with me, please, Benny—you have to come with me— _please_ —”

“What are you talking about?” The older man frowns. He sits Dean back down—Dean’s fingers curl into the knights shoulders and hold on so tightly he is afraid they might break off.

“I have to—I have to go back to Heolster—I have to see the Demons again and I _can’t—”_

Benny’s arms slip around Dean’s body and he buries himself in the older man’s warmth, trembling breaths falling from his lips.

“You’re not going to be alone,” Benny says softly, his thumbs stroking at Dean’s spine. He takes a shuddering sigh against the knight’s chest.

 

…

 

“So, Samuel finally told you about Ruby, then,” Crowley sneers over the dark, glistening stone table the two of them are sat at.

“He didn’t so much tell me as much as I found out.”

“Ouch,” The Demon smirks. “I suppose the two of you aren’t as close as you once were, then. Oh, come on, Winchester—don’t give me that look. You really think _I_ planned out to have one of my _best_ _soldiers_ used as some kind of romantic interest for your whiny brother? A boy caught between the cusp of teenage years and an unhealthy addiction to the blood of another species?”

Dean’s frown turns from hostile to confused in a matter of seconds.

“Wait, what?” He glares, lines worrying at his face. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, he didn’t tell you?” Crowley asks, mock concern flitting across his features and lacing his tone. “Ah, that’s certainly one way to deteriorate what’s left of your relationship.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean asks again, his jaw clenching. Benny’s hand, resting on his shoulder, squeezes gently in an attempt to cool Dean’s nerve.

“I’m talking about your brother’s mutilating addiction to Demon blood,” Crowley states, carelessly examining a ring on his finger, twisting it round and round the digit it rests on; not unlike the way King John once did with his wedding ring. The familiarity of the motion has pain and regret spiking through Dean’s heart, despite the anger and confusion already shrouding his emotions. Crowley glances up to see Dean’s still utterly nonplussed expression and sighs in exasperation. “Oh, goodness, you really have _no_ idea? Well, not that it matters, anyway—any minute now, our noble— _King,”_  Crowley says the word as though it sets a bad taste in his mouth, “is going to be gracing us with his fine presence, and he’ll no doubt explain everything.”

“Wait—Lucifer is coming—?” Dean’s heart sets into that ugly tripping motion and breathing becomes difficult again—to the extent that even Benny’s warm, firm hand on his shoulder isn’t enough to steady him.

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it? And, I don’t expect, one of the King’s right hand men will be in attendance, too—Azazel—who you have to thank for much of the grand scheme. And, coincidently, you also have him to thank for the death of your mother. Small world, eh?”

Dean’s heart freezes.

“—No—”

“Oh, and your father!” Crowley exclaims, snapping his fingers, as though only just remembering this. “It really _is_ an odd little world, isn’t it?”

“You son of a _bitch_ —”

“Now, now, Dean—you won’t want to be quite so rude to me when you discover just what this blood is doing to your brother.”

“Crowley, if you—”

“But spoilers, spoilers.” Crowley shakes his head, a wistful smile lacing his features—Dean hardly notices thanks to the blood clouding his vision with anger. “I can’t give all of the plot away—that’d ruin the fun of my superior, wouldn’t it?” Crowley leers. “And speaking of,” Crowley laughs, glancing over to the grand dark wooden doors of the room which swing suddenly and almost violently open, “here they are, now.”

Dean turns—he turns from where he has stood, livid, and his blood freezes in his veins.

Michael’s twin brother strolls into the room, his presence so commanding and terrifying that Dean thinks he shrivels up a little from where he stands. A Demon with haunting yellow eyes that pin Dean to his spot follows after the Angel.

“Your Majesty,” Crowley stands, giving a stiff bow which the Angel King decides to ignore, turning to Dean instead.

“Why, hello, Dean,” He smiles softly. “I had wondered when I would be seeing you again—but I hadn’t thought it would be this _soon._ Clearly, fate is on my side.” His eyes flit over to Benny, stood to Dean’s left. “And look, you’ve brought a friend.” He lets out a soft laugh. “Tell me, Sire, is this young knight your sweet, twisted little way of replacing my dear youngest brother? Come, don’t give me that look,” Lucifer snorts quietly. “Now, please don’t let me be so rude for a moment longer—allow me to introduce the Demon on my right—this is Azazel, one of my most trusted servants.”

“Charmed,” Dean spits, trembling slightly.

“Oh, he’s got a bite, this one,” Azazel laughs. “And here I was, so convinced he was nothing more than an obstacle in our path to power.”

The Demon pulls out a chair without invitation—much to the disgruntlement of Crowley, who bristles noticeably but says nothing.

“Yes, the older Winchester brother certainly took us all by surprise,” Lucifer chuckles softly, sitting also. Benny’s hand on Dean’s shoulder tightens significantly. “And how cruel it was for us to overlook you, Dean, when you might just be the key to my return.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean bites. “And why—”

“Crowley, the boy still has no idea?” Lucifer asks, glancing over to the ruler of Heolster. Crowley rubs his temples again and nods, tiredly.

“None at all,” He answers.

“I suppose I’d better explain, then. No doubt he’ll be rather confused.”

Dean nods stiffly.

“Well, when I first invaded your quaint little Kingdom, I had it in mind to set into motion a lovely little plan conceived for your younger brother. He was to become a weapon—a boy King, and a bartering tool—both of which, he still _will_ become, which you will see clearly in good time. But my plan for dear Samuel was, little King, to have him fed from birth an amount of Demon blood.”

Dean’s insides turn to stone.

“—You—”

“Well, I didn’t personally, no.” Lucifer shakes his head. “My trusted subject, Azazel did that.” Lucifer gestures lightly to the Demon sat on his right, whose yellow eyes crease at their corners as he pulls an entirely unconvincing smile at Dean—one that his bile rising to the back of his throat. “And then your silly little mother had to get in the way—which of course, only ended in misery. Had she not interrupted—”

“You _killed_ her!” Dean shouts, something inside of him snapping almost palpably as he rises to spit his fury at the Demon Azazel. The Demon remains seated, infuriatingly unperturbed, and Dean wants to lunge forward again but Benny’s hand is pressing down on his shoulder and returning him, fuming, to his seat.

“Dean,” Benny murmurs softly. “He’s not worth—”

Dean shakes himself out of Benny’s grip.

“You’ve got a good little servant there, Dean.” Azazel sneers. “Perhaps you should listen to him a tad more often.”

“Perhaps we should get back on topic.” Crowley says, venom and exasperation evident in his voice—apparently he finds all this rather boring, perhaps because he is no longer the one driving Dean to distraction, and is instead lounging on his overly-decorated chair, bored by the proceedings.

“From the moment of your mother’s death, Dean, your beloved brother had the blood of a powerful Demon swelling through his veins. And once a year—on the anniversary of your dead, sweet mother’s demise—Azazel would return to Sammy’s side. While he slept—often with you next to him, Dean! That must be quite a thought,” Lucifer laughs wistfully, shaking his head. Dean thinks he’s going to be sick. “Your poor little brother would consume Demon blood—only once a year—only enough to prepare him for the power still to come his way when he turned of age—and bless him, Azazel got rather attached to Sammy. Saw him as something like a son. So who can blame him for killing your father, his main competition to the role?”

Dean’s blood is brought to a scorching boil.

“Well, not true, exactly. Killing John Winchester was once again part of a larger plan. And you see, he had no idea … But he found out about our plans for dear, sweet Sammy—God knows how—and bless him, wanted to save his youngest son at _any_ cost.”

“So he made a deal,” Azazel smirks.

“And played right into our hands,” Lucifer chuckles softly, as though recollecting some passing joke. “Leaving you as King. But as I mentioned that night—the night we killed your father, I mean—we had come to realise your importance. And your potential.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean frowns.

“While I mentioned how much of my brother I saw in you, I didn’t bring up how much of myself I saw in Samuel,” Lucifer hums. “And while I recognised my own traits in your younger brother first, it _did_ occur to me how similar you were to Michael. And then I considered your importance—and thought, if you please—why I ought to have only _one_ weapon, when I could have _two?”_

“What are you—”

“And there’s an odd little item of Demon folklore, you see—aside from the surprisingly true myth of strange qualities of Demon blood, which I’ll get to in a minute—of the most powerful Demon there’s ever been. Of a Demon, legend has it, who was spawned from a Human. A Demon, according to myth, who was the first of his kind.”

“But that _can’t_ be true—”

“—Which is exactly what I thought—but then I stopped to reconsider, and realised that while shrouded in fable—perhaps it did hold _some_ truth. And you see, the more I examined it, the more difficult I found denying the possibility. The Demon spoken of actually _exists,_ for one thing—although seeking him out was a ludicrous amount of effort—he dwelt across the desert and over sea and hill and valley; in alien and unexplored and barren lands, otherwise empty. Oh Dean, you can’t _begin_ to understand how much effort was required just to track him down. Anyway—he bears a mark. A mark, they say, which can be transferred—along with all his powers.”

“So why the _fuck_ would this Demon want to give it over to someone?”

“Exhaustion, mainly.” Lucifer chuckles. “If he was in fact once Human, as the legend suggests, I considered it more than likely that he’d share at least _some_ of your attributes. It may not have occurred to you, Dean, but you Humans are rather easily drained. And on the lore of Demon blood and its qualities—well, that’s been proven as something more than lore, recent events taken into account.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Have you not heard word of the plague that has been sweeping across Corinna these past few years?”

“That was _you?!”_ Dean spits, growing more confused and terrified than ever.

“Of course,” Laughter tumbles from Lucifer’s lips. “Call it—I don’t know; an experiment to make sure everything is in working order. Before the main attraction.”

“But those people _died—”_

“Weakness,” Lucifer shrugs. “And not being fed Demon blood since birth. Along with that; too heavy a dosage can easily kill one of you Humans. You are such poor and flimsy things, after all.”

“Why are you poisoning _any_ of them with Demon blood? Those are innocent lives! Why are you doing any of this?! What could you possibly stand to gain?!”

“How are your brother’s dreams, Dean?” The Angel asks, raising his eyebrows expectantly at the Human King.

“—How did you—”

“Is he looking well? I don’t expect he is, is he?” Lucifer sighs in mock sympathy, pressing his lips together in an artificially pitying line.

Dean’s jaw clenches.

“Demon blood is, along with everything else, apparently quite an addictive substance, for Humans. And over the years, Samuel has been consuming more and more of it—until, since his visit to this very Kingdom—our loyal servant Ruby gave him all the blood he could possibly want. He was _consumed_ with desire for it—and now, apparently, thinks he’s in love,” Lucifer smirks. “How woozy and fickle and easily swayed your Human hearts are. But being cut off from such an inexhaustible supply as a Kingdom _full_ of Demons, so suddenly, is having quite detrimental effects on his health… Isn’t it?” The Angel raises his eyebrows. “I don’t expect he’ll last the month without another stock.”

“You mean he’s going to die?” Dean asks, hands trembling. His heart sinks into his stomach. Dread saturates his senses.

“If cut off from the blood in the way that he has been, yes,” Lucifer nods carelessly, pulling a loose feather from his wings and examining it a moment. “It’s funny—too much, and a Human dies. Given too long to develop a dependency on it, and then having it cut off completely—and a Human dies. Ideally, one should be _weaned_ off it, like babies stopping with breastfeeding. Sam has not had that luxury.” He flicks his eyes back up to Dean’s blanched face. “Which puts you in quite a sticky situation, doesn’t it?”

“—You—you planned this, didn’t you?”

“Well, I’ve sort of been saying that all along, yes,” Lucifer nods drolly. “Though it’s nice for you to finally catch up, Dean—we’ve been waiting for you to do so for quite some time.” He smirks. “I wonder, what _did_ my youngest brother see in you? Well, nothing at all, as you must now realise.”

Dean can hardly focus on the Angel’s teasing because of the fear worming its icy way through his system.

“Sammy’s going to die?” He asks, limbs turning numb.

“He’ll die eventually, anyway,” Lucifer snickers, “but he’ll die far sooner If you don’t cooperate.”

Azazel leers and pulls a knife out of a small sheath on his side, playing with it with deliberate thoughtfulness. It is a dull white and possibly made out of ivory; a pale red hue is left on its handle that Dean thinks suddenly, with a sickening jolt to his stomach, must be the faded marks of years of bloodstains from all of the dagger’s victims. A great desert bird is carved into the handle itself, one of its wings stretches up the spine of the blade and runs along one side of it; the head of the bird itself looks to the dagger’s sharpened tip with a pointed gaze.

“I’ll do anything,” He states, his throat suddenly so dry that speaking has the same sensation as grains of sand would if they were running roughly down his gullet. “Anything if you’ll save my brother.”

“That’s just the response we were hoping for,” Azazel sneers, leaning back triumphantly in his throne-like chair. Dean wants to be sick.

“What do I have to do?” Dean asks. Benny’s hand squeezes desperately at Dean’s body again, nearly shaking Dean with its hopelessness, but Dean ignores it. He can’t listen. He can’t afford to.

“Dean—” The knight tries, speaking aloud this time, but Dean shakes his head quickly.

“I have to—” He stammers. “—I’m sorry.”

“You remember that mark I mentioned earlier?” Lucifer asks. “And the Demon who bore it?”

“Yes,” Dean nods, frowning cautiously as his hands shake with an impending sense of dread.

“Well, as I said: I found the Demon. Myth turned out to be truth—or at least partly so. And therefore, without any further formalities, I introduce to you, Cain,” He laughs, gesturing to the doors which swing immediately open—Dean actually thinks that the Angel is _controlling_ them in some way—and a tired looking man—no, _Demon_ —steps into the room. “The Fabled First Demon, the so-called Father of Murder.”

The Demon steps closer—he wears peasant clothing, has greying hair and a rough grey beard; he looks _tired_ of life and world-weary in a way that is very familiar to Dean, yet not to _this_ degree.

“What happened to him?” Dean finds himself asking voice in quiet awe.

He glances over to Crowley and frowns to see the Demon almost shrivelling in his seat—Dean cannot understand why it is the Demon would be so afraid of someone who appears to be nothing more than a _peasant,_ and a very battered one at that _._

“Oh, Cain rather lost his love for power, murder, fun, and the like, when the love of his life died,” Azazel shrugs. “ _Another_ testimony to the dangers of ardour.”

Lucifer snorts.

“And what is it that you want me to do?”

The Angel pauses a moment, his expression turning serious.

“We want you to take on the mark,” Lucifer states. Cain steps closer to Dean.

“The mark can be transferred to someone who’s worthy,” He states quietly.

Cain’s voice is rough and jagged as though it has gone centuries without being used.

“And that’s me?” Dean asks uncertainly. Perhaps his way out of all of this will be his inadequacies of character—a thought that makes his head giddy with possibility; yet also terrifies him beyond belief. Did Lucifer plan this through? Does he know of all Dean’s failings? Will the mark _want_ Dean enough to ‘transfer’ itself onto him?

“Oh, don’t be so modest, Dean,” Azazel leers. “Of course it’s you. This is your _destiny.”_

“I don’t believe in destiny.”

“Funny, because she’s about to make an absolute _fool_ of you.”

“I can give you the mark, Dean, if it’s what you truly want,” Cain says. He doesn’t seem much like other Demons. He is agonisingly close to Humanity—and yet there’s that _something,_ that edge of fire beneath his eyes that has Dean shuddering and looking away.

“I want to save my brother.”

“Excellent,” Azazel  rubs his hands together. “Then let’s not waste any more time—”

“What do you mean by worthy, exactly?” Dean asks, turning back to Cain—The Father of Murder, as he is called by the Demons.

_Oh._

“You mean a killer, like you?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Cain nods, shortly.

For once in his life, Dean _is_ worthy of something—and it’s nothing at all to be proud of.

“And if I take it on—you won’t kill Sammy?” Dean asks, turning back to Lucifer. “You’ll wean him off Demon blood? You’ll do it so he’s totally safe?”

“Samuel will be safe.”

 “Dean, you can’t trust them—” Benny attempts to remind, but Lucifer’s gaze flicks viciously from Dean’s face to his knight’s.

“Dean’s not in a position to be anything _other_ than trusting,” He bites. “Unless, of course, he wishes to see his brother dead and buried.”

“This is _blackmail!”_ Benny exclaims.

“This is _war,”_ Lucifer spits.

“But Hera dropped out—”

“With the Heavenly Realms,” The Angel snarls. “With my _dear_ brother.”

“Dean, you’re being used as a weapon!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean shakes his head, looking back to Cain. “If it’ll mean you save Sam, then I’ll do it.”

“It’ll save Sam,” Crowley rolls his eyes. “If nothing else, to stop you banging on about it.”

“You must remember that with the mark comes a terrible burden—a curse—” Cain starts, but Azazel clears his throat coarsely and pointedly, and the Demon presses his mouth shut again.

“You want to be rid of the mark, don’t you, Cain?” Lucifer asks quietly. The Father of Murder nods and looks down.

“Then do it.” Azazel hisses.

Cain holds out his hand to Dean. The Human looks down at the Demon’s wrist and sees what must be the mark—it is burnt angry and red and raw onto Cain’s skin. He shudders slightly at the sight, something uneasy running through him.

“Dean, you don’t know what this is going to do to you—”

“Let him make his own decisions,” Azazel snarls at Benny. “You want to save your brother, yes?” He asks, turning back to Dean.

“I don’t understand _why_ you want this—”

“It need not concern you, right now,” Lucifer rolls his eyes, clearly growing impatient. “Do it!”

“But I—”

“It will give you powers beyond your wildest dreams, for one thing. You’ll be able to protect your kingdom from attack better than ever before, if you know how to _wield_ that power—”

“And taking it on will ensure the safety of your brother,” Lucifer scowls, frustrated by Dean’s hesitance. “We’ll ensure he is weaned off Demon blood safely.”

“And that’s a promise?”

“I swear he won’t be killed.”

“My King—”

“It matters not,” Lucifer turns to Azazel, silencing his protests. “This is all as I intended.”

“But all my work on the boy—”

“We’ll discuss this later,” Lucifer grows impatient again. “For now, trust me, yes?” He turns back to Dean. “Do we have a deal?”

“Anything to save Sammy,” Dean finds his body is shaking.

“Oh, how sweet. What I wouldn’t give for an older brother like you.”

“Are you sure?” Cain asks, his bright blue gaze pressing into Dean’s face. It reminds the Human desperately of Castiel. He glances down at the mark on Cain’s forearm again. He steels himself. He’s doing this for Sammy, he reminds himself. He grabs Cain’s wrist, and the Demon grabs his—and searing pain sets along Dean’s skin instantaneously.

“—I’m sure.,” He stammers, before being forced to grit his teeth at the pain set burning into his blood—he thinks he lets out a cry of pain, but he can’t be sure, because the world is buzzing around him and his senses are turning unclear—perhaps he collapses onto the floor, knees thumping against the coarse stone; but all he can concentrate on his the _burning_ set onto his forearm. He winces through the pain—when he next looks at his arm, it’s going to be ash, he’s sure of it; it’s going to be melted away and ugly and Dean thinks he’s _screaming_ yet he isn’t even sure of this.

He pulls away, yanking his arm desperately out of the Demon’s grip, rough sounds escaping his throat as he grasps his wrist with his other hand—and when he looks down, the angry, ominous mark is on _his_ skin instead of Cain’s.

“There’s one term,” Cain says, his voice ringing in Dean’s ears. “One other, I mean.”

“Oh?” Dean shakes, looking up. “And what’s that?”

“When you are given the blade—this will make very little sense now, though you’ll understand when it’s given to you—I want you to come here and kill me.”

“What blade? And why the hell do you want me to do that?” Dean has to grit his teeth from the agonising pain now seared onto his skin.

“For all that I’ve just subjected you to.,” Cain states—and before Dean can ask the Demon what the hell he’s talking about, Cain has pressed his hands to both Dean and Benny’s shoulders, and in the next instant, they are no longer in Heolster but outside the gates of Hera.

Dean turns to Benny, shaking, his mind running at a mile a minute and the rest of him unable to keep up. He glances down at the mark scorched on his forearm, gasping for air in quick, laboured breaths; then back up at the knight. His one remaining friend, who looks at Dean the way one would look at a murderer.

“Dean,” Benny says softly, his voice hoarse. “What have you done?”

Dean doesn’t have an answer.


	19. Marks of Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter after this one will be an outsiders' POV chapter, just to remind you.
> 
> Shit's getting messy. Stay tuned for more drama (and eventually a happy ending). I feel like that should be the description of pretty much all my stories.

_“Castiel,”_ Michael says softly. His hand moves to graze at his younger brother’s shoulder from where he stands, behind the younger Angel. _“How are you feeling today?”_

He speaks cautiously, afraid to anger Castiel with what is now undue familiarity yet apparently desperate for contact with his youngest sibling.

Castiel and Michael have been speaking ever infrequently. Castiel can rarely bring himself to make eye contact with his oldest brother; only nod shortly and offer him brief, frosty responses. In avoiding Michael’s awkward company, Castiel has spent much of his time in Tyrzah with Anna, familiarising himself with the beautiful kingdom from which his mother came. Michael begged Castiel to return to Evadne, if even for a little while. Perhaps he had missed Castiel.

But Castiel misses _Dean,_ and desperately. He hates Dean for jumping to the foolish conclusions he did jump to—for being, as always, so hot-headed and impulsive. And he misses the Human more than he has anything ever before.

 _“I am feeling okay, brother,”_ He replies tiredly. _“You needn’t worry about me.”_

Angel King sighs softly from behind Castiel. Although he can’t see him, Castiel is fairly certain that he is crying. He muses gently for a moment on the oddness and intensity of ties between siblings.

 _“You will be turning twenty-one, soon,”_ Michael states quietly. Castiel frowns at the empty air in front of him. He places the book in his hands on the table and turns himself from where he sits, looking out the window, to face his brother. He was right about Michael crying—or at least partially so. Michael’s eyes are damp with the beginnings of tears.

 _“Not for a while,”_ Castiel replies, a frown still worming at his features.

 _“Your birthday will arrive sooner than you’ll anticipate it to,”_ Michael replies. His hand—Castiel had forgotten it was still resting on his shoulder—squeezes gently. The touch is meant to be comforting, but it sends something sinking like a stone in water down into Castiel’s gut.

 _“Why are you telling me this?”_ He asks, swallowing thickly.

 _“Because I want you to be fairly warned,”_ Michael answers. _“And because it’s time you began to fulfil some more of your royal duties.”_

 _“I’ve already gone to war once,”_ Castiel reminds. Michael sighs and rubs his temples with thumb and forefinger.

 _“Yes, brother,_ once,” He counters. _“Only once. And you_ know _that there is more to being a prince than that.”_

_“When did Gabriel and Anna first start ruling?”_

_“Castiel,”_ Michael sighs again, _“Anna began ruling over Tyrzah as its_ Queen _shortly after our father’s death—after I was crowned High King and forced to return to Evadne. Gabriel began ruling Theia as its King only around half a century before that.”_

 _“So they would have been far older than I am now, you mean.”_ Castiel glowers up at his older brother. Michael exhales again and kneels in front of Castiel, on the cool white stone of the palace floor, his eyes level with his younger brother’s.

 _“I am not asking you to begin ruling a Kingdom, Castiel,”_ Michael reminds gently. _“Only to take up a few more duties as a member of the royal family. As a prince—and one day, as a King. ”_

 _“And what do these duties involve?”_ Castiel asks, his eyebrows winding into a worried expression. Michael’s lips twitch upwards affectionately, and he brushes his thumb across the concerned lines written across Castiel’s forehead. Castiel desperately wants to shake his brother off; to remind him that the pair are no longer so familiar with each other, that Castiel does not appreciate the touch nor need the comfort that it intends, but Michael falters, as though suddenly becoming aware of his younger brother’s thoughts, and withdraws.

 _“There are a number of options,”_ He answers. _“But joining your sister—she is visiting the Kingdom of Dione in just under a month—”_

 _“I have no desire to return to any of the Human Kingdoms,”_ Castiel’s jaw clenches. _“Never again.”_

 _“You will have to at some point, brother,”_ Michael’s expression of gentle concern twists into a frown. _“Better now, proving to yourself that you can, than in a number of years’ time, when you can hardly bring yourself to do it out of fear for reliving everything.”_

 _“That’s why I don’t want to go back, now,”_ Castiel glowers at his brother. _“For that, and a myriad of other reasons. Why must I go?”_

_“The Queen of Dione—Queen Bela—has called for each of the Human Kingdoms to visit her Kingdom on a vote of unification of the Earthly Realms.”_

_“She wants to unite the four Earthly Kingdoms?”_ Castiel raises his eyebrows at Michael. The older Angel bows his head and nods. _“And that’s a bad thing?”_ He asks, frowning.

 _“Depending on the conditions of their unification, yes, it could be,”_ Michael confirms. _“And considering that our ties with the Humans are now all but completely severed—”_

 _“—Sorry—”_ Castiel apologises quickly, guilt prickling down his neck. Michael shakes his head and brushes Castiel’s comment aside with his hand, continuing.

 _“—You needn’t apologise,”_ Michael sighs. _“All I mean is that, with Angel-Human ties so weak, it would be easy for the Humans to override any ancient traditions left binding our two races together in mutual loyalty.”_

_“And so they might form ties with the Demon Kingdoms.”_

_“Precisely,”_ Michael nods. _“With one or both of them.”_

_“Which would pose a threat to our own Kingdom.”_

_“To all of the Angel Kingdoms. To all of_ us. _”_

Castiel sighs softly. There is quiet for a moment.

_“So you want Anna and myself to be there—”_

_“To ensure that this doesn’t happen,”_ Michael finishes Castiel’s sentence for him. Castiel looks down a moment. His head is starting to hurt.

_“And Dean—”_

_“—Will most likely be there, yes,”_ The High King confirms. The pain in Castiel’s skull turns into a dull pounding sensation. _“Almost certainly, in fact.”_

 _“And I_ must _visit?”_

 _“I think it would be best, yes brother,”_ Michael says firmly yet quietly.

_“Simply to face my own fears?”_

_“If for nothing else, then yes. But your presence will be needed there for the good of our kind. Remember the Angels, Castiel—we knew and loved you long before any Human ever did.”_

Castiel bites the inside of his mouth again and stares down at the marble floor. He has missed this palace, if nothing else. These alabaster walls have been his home for the past twenty years of his life—and yet he was prepared to give them completely up for a life with Dean. He was prepared to give _everything_ up for Dean. His eyes flit back to the book on the table—the first book Dean ever gave to him. A splintering sensation itches across his heart whenever he looks at it, and as a result he has no idea of why it is he has chosen to _read_ it again, let alone have it so constantly in his presence. He glances back up at his brother once more.

 _“So what is your answer, Castiel?”_ Michael asks gently. Castiel sighs.

 _“I will go,”_ He nods. Michael’s hands move to squeeze at the younger Angel’s wrists.

 _“Thank you,”_ His brother’s voice fills with earnest. _“You’re far braver than I ever was.”_

 Castiel looks away.

 

…

 

He arrives in the Kingdom of Dione with his sister. The castle is smaller than that of Hera, and it lies on a cliff with the surrounding sea rocking against the stone faces below it. Even inside the castle, Castiel can hear the sound of the waves. The castle itself is beautiful, Castiel admits—while Hera was composed almost entirely of defences and hard, heavy attempts at grandeur, thick stone walls and a dense, ominous silhouette on the horizon, Dione is soft turrets and spires, thin spiral staircases and whitewashed walls—it feels almost precarious, set atop a chalky cliff next to such a wide, grand sea.

By the time he and Anna had arrived, evening had already begun to set in, and now the pale walls of the castle are caught alight in the fire of the setting sun, casting its rays out across the wide waters of the Cerydien.

The Queen’s hair forms in loose waves. Four thin plaits, two on either side of her head, wound together as the meet at the back of her head. She wears an elegant black dress that looks as though it is made of satin, with lace sleeves that cut off at her elbows. Castiel examines them thoughtfully for a moment—Queen Talbot is the first Human he has seen wearing clothing that reveals some of her arms. He wonders if this is a deliberate statement on her part. Judging by her defiant, resolute expression and steady gaze, it probably is. All of her presentation is calculated, careful and deliberate—Castiel is sure of it—and were he not examining the Queen of Dione so closely, he would be sure to believe her older than him; and yet now that he is unpicking all of her façade, he realises with something of a shock that she must be several years younger than himself.

There is a _child_ on the throne of Dione.

“I had never intended to keep ties with the Demon Kingdom of Heolster,” The Queen Bela states, her face frank and open as she sits on the bronze throne at the head of the Great Hall. Castiel and his sister stand opposite her. The windows are the colour of the sea outside, and stained on the largest one is a depiction of a sea-maiden, hair long and golden and skin a deep brown. She sits atop rock on the wild sea, warm brown eyes with the sun quite literally setting behind them fixed on Castiel. Her green tail trails lazily in the water, the sound of the sea outside makes the image almost seem as though it is moving.

Castiel is distracted and wearied by travel. None of the rulers of the Human Kingdoms have arrived yet.

 “So the Kingdom of Aiathen…?” Anna asks, Castiel not missing the concern flitting across her features as she trails off, leaving Queen Talbot to fill her in.

“I cannot promise anything on our relations with Aiathen,” Bela replies honestly. She leans forward fractionally on her throne, her hands resting lightly on the cool metal arms of the furniture, not breaking eye contact with Castiel’s sister for a moment.

“Why is that?” Castiel asks, frowning lightly.

“Frankly, because I couldn’t stand being in the _presence_ of the leader of Heolster—a snide, oily Demon named Crowley—let alone being allied with him and his Kingdom.”

“But the leader of Aiathen?”

“I find her company much more palatable,” Bela shrugs.

“You would choose your allies based purely on whose company you enjoy the most?” Anna asks, something taught and frustrated lacing her tone.

“Honestly, yes I would,” Bela replies, sounding almost amused. For the first time in their interaction, Castiel thinks he can recognise a flicker of childishness cross the new Queen’s mannerisms. “Wouldn’t _you_ choose your friends based on those you enjoy spending time with?”

“Being allied with a nation is not synonymous with friendship—it’s far more severe than that, I’m afraid—and honestly, that’s a lesson you ought to learn sooner rather than later. For your own good,” Anna counters quickly.

“I’m well aware of that,” Bela laughs lightly. “And Abaddon—the Demon Queen of Aithen—and her Kingdom’s alliance with our own _would_ be hugely beneficial for my Kingdom and my people. I’m sorry if that distresses you.”

“In what ways would their alliance benefit yours?” Anna covers the anxiousness in her voice well, though Castiel is still able to pick up on it. Nervousness flutters through his system. “Is it nothing that the Angels can offer?”

“Aiathen and Heolster are currently facing a number of political tensions. Their two leaders aren’t on the best of terms—and while the Demon Crowley seems to believe that he can walk all over my Kingdom on account of the fact that it is such a small land, that I am a new ruler, that I am a _Queen_ rather than a King, that my father before me was closely tied with him and his Kingdom—” Bela lists dryly. “—Abaddon is the opposite. She—she’s _kind_ to me.” The childishness returns, yet Castiel doesn’t regard it in any kind of condescending or even pitiful manner. More than anything else, he thinks he _understands_ it. “She offers me advice—good advice.”

“Advice that will only benefit _her.”_

“How do you know that?” Queen Bela frowns suddenly at Castiel. “Do you claim to know her heart? And do you really think that I am so undiscerning that I’d be unable to tell if her advice really _were_ for my Kingdom’s benefit or simply her own?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, I know what you meant. I’ve heard it from the lips of countless people—countless _men—”_

“Castiel isn’t a man.”

“You _know_ what I mean,” Bela grits her teeth. “And I might be young—but I’m _capable_. And you might not think like Crowley—that I can’t do it just because I’m a woman—a girl, no less—but _he does_ think that. And Abaddon knows that I can rule this Kingdom with wisdom and grace and everything my father neither did nor possessed. And honestly, while you have no idea of what the Demons and Lucifer—yes I know about him—are planning, _I do._ So don’t underestimate me.”

“What do you know?” Castiel asks, worry winding across his features.

“Later,” Bela brushes her hand through the air casually, suddenly having cooled down quite considerably. “The gist of all of this is—and my apologies for getting quite so side tracked—is that if some kind of war involving more than one nation against your own breaks out, Dione will not involve themselves.”

“And Abaddon knows this?” Anna raises her eyebrows at the Human Queen.

“Abaddon knows this,” Bela confirms.

“So Dione will not engage in war against the Angels, because of the Demons?”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Bela sighs, crossing her legs, “Dione will attempt avoid war with _any_ Kingdom at all costs.”

“That doesn’t quite answer the question.” Castiel’s sister frowns.

“Dione will remain uninvolved in any wars against your people and your Kingdoms, unless you give us good reason not t,” Bela states. Anna nods gratefully.

“We’ll do our best not to.”

“Likewise.”

Castiel becomes fairly certain that he is going to be sick by the time all the respective rulers of the other kingdoms begin arriving at the castle. He presses his lips into a thin line as Anna’s hand grazes softly against the back of his own.

 _“It’ll be fine,”_ She says gently, her voice barely above a murmur.

 _“How can you be certain?”_ Castiel asks, watching as a pretty, dark, wavy haired human enters the hall, curtseying respectfully to Queen Bela. She looks only a few years older than Castiel. _“He’s going to be here—there’s no doubt—and it’s going to hurt, again—”_

 _“It was always going to hurt, Castiel.”_ Anna reminds, turning to face the younger Angel a little more. _“Always. Loss has never been painless, and it would be foolishness to expect it to be so.”_

Castiel presses his mouth tightly shut and blinks back the stinging threat of tears at his eyes.

 _“Yes… but that knowledge doesn’t make things any easier,”_ He replies quietly.

 _“Of course not,”_ Anna shakes her head. Castiel sighs, frame softening with despondency. His sister glances at him, her expression saddening a moment, before she slips her hand into Castiel’s. There is a silence for a moment before she speaks again. _“Do you remember all those books on love that you have read?”_ She asks quietly, her lips twitching upwards into an affectionate smile.

_“Of course I remember.”_

_“How many do you think you have read, roughly?”_

_“Hundreds,”_ Castiel shrugs. _“Most of the books that Humans write are about at least one form of love.”_

_“And if they are not about love, they at least include love, in its many different forms, don’t they?”_

_“How would you know?”_ Castiel frowns, turning a little to face his sister better.

 _“Please Castiel,”_ She laughs lightly, rolling her eyes. _“You are not the only one in our family who reads.”_

Castiel frowns again. He had never even considered this a possibility of his sister’s character.

 _“What is your point, Anna?”_ He asks. He sounds a little more exhausted than he intends. Anna, to her credit, merely chuckles lightly at his tone and grazes her hand against Castiel’s arm.

_“My point, little brother, is that even with the absence of Dean in your life, you still have so many others who love you. And facing him today is not a task that you will be burdened with having to do alone.”_

_“I have you,”_ Castiel states, the words aimed at reminding himself of their truth as much as anything else.

 _“You have me,”_ Anna repeats, breaking out into a warm beam. _“And you always will.”_

Castiel exhales softly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 _“And you have Gabriel—although whether or not that’s a good thing is a thoroughly debatable issue,”_ Anna laughs. Castiel snorts and turns back to face her.

 _“I ought to tell him you said that. I probably_ will _.”_

 _“You probably will,”_ Anna agrees, rolling her eyes.

 _“I have Michael, too.”_ Castiel reminds.

 _“You have Michael, too.”_ Anna nods. _“And Samandriel. And Inias. And what is the name of that pretty dark haired Angel you befriended at Tyrzah—?”_

 _“—Hannah.”_ Castiel says, perhaps a little too quickly. Anna smirks triumphantly.

 _“Hannah,”_ She repeats. _“You have her, too.”_

Castiel swallows, nodding, and steels himself.

_“Thank you, Anna.”_

Anna’s hand squeezes at his shoulder again.

 _“Never forget how much I love you, little brother.”_ She says softly. Castiel has to look at the floor, because a lump has risen to the back of his throat, and a swell of warm, splintering affection has flooded through him, along with the threatening press of tears at his eyes.

 _“I love you too, sister,”_ He returns. Anna’s hand slips back into Castiel’s.

He is introduced to several Human rulers—the dark headed girl he saw earlier turns out to be the Lady Pamela, daughter of one of the Lords of Eofor—she seems kind and good-natured, smiling warmly to Castiel when learning his name.

And then a light brown haired Human enters the hall, his long haired brother following after him, and Castiel _has_ to look away, because a stabbing pain goes shooting across his chest at the sight of _this_ Human. He feels—he can sense—Dean’s gaze pressing pointedly at his face. The Human is probably just as terrified at the sight of Castiel as Castiel is of him—except perhaps more so; Castiel was at least _expecting_ to see Dean here, after all.

Castiel spends the next few moments looking anywhere but wherever Dean and his brother—and, Castiel is fairly certain, Sir Robert—happen to be lurking, but fortunately they are all instructed to take a seat at a wide round table, and Castiel tugs his sister to a seat of suitable distance away from Dean and his two companions. Now all that is left is continuing in avoiding looking at the Human.

Queen Bela sits at the most important looking seat; one of ornately decorated mahogany, and pauses a moment, her eyes grazing over each of the faces of the throng of rulers gathered in front of her.

“I’m assuming you’ve all been informed in your respective letters why it is I requested your presence in my Kingdom today,” She says, her voice quiet yet commanding as she sits,  looking slowly round the faces of the throng.

“We know that you have some ridiculous notion about uniting all of our Ancient Kingdoms into some kind of— _pandemonium—_ and no doubt for your own good.”

Murmurs of agreement echo across the table, but Bela’s face remains utterly unperturbed, she stares pointedly, and with a coldness that is almost eerie, at the man who spat his protests at her intentions for an uncomfortable moment. Just when his face is beginning to prickle a disgruntled red, Bela tilts her head to the side and speaks once again.

“King Campbell, with all due respect, I’m certain that you wouldn’t be voicing these ‘concerns’ quite so forcefully were it not for the history of my father’s relations with you and your Kingdom.”

“Why does that surprise you?” The man frowns. “Your history needs to be taken into account—”

“—Then rest assured that I have no intention of invading the marshlands of Corinna, as long as you and your armies remain away from our plains. I feel that I needn’t remind you, but I will in any case, that I am not my father. And I have _no_ intention of following in his footsteps.”

Castiel glances around the circle to check if anyone else looks as uncomfortable as he feels—many do, which is reassuring—but then he makes eye-contact with Dean, for a sickening moment, and has looked away, feeling utterly nauseated in the next instant. His heart hurts again.

“Furthermore,” Bela leans forward fractionally—Castiel is certain this time that others feel threatened by the motion as he does; but he glances to his sister to see a subtly amused smile playing at her lips. “Your description of a united Human territory being a ‘pandemonium’ is rather heavy handed, seeing as we haven’t even _touched_ upon any of my further plans or suggestions—wouldn’t you agree?”

She doesn’t give King Campbell the time to answer, but continues regardless.

“And while the affairs of Kings may be saturated with self-interest, I can assure that this is not the case for Queens—at least not in my experience, and certainly not in this case. I act for the good of all Humanity—for our own safety, for our own benefit. Do you not see how much more prosperous—both economically and socially—a united front of Humans would be?”

The Human chews the inside of his mouth for a moment

“Fine. Let’s hear your plans, then,” He mutters quietly. Bela’s expression turns smug and triumphant, and for another brief moment she looks very much like the child she really is, again; seventeen years of age at the most.

“Before you progress any further,” Anna speaks up, leaning forward in her seat and resting her forearms on the table—it’s a small motion, but Castiel knows enough about discussions and politics to know how calculated and precise it is, “my siblings and I would like to know what your plans for Angel relations would be, were you to unite the Human territories. This question applies to each of you.” Anna looks slowly over the faces of each of the rulers.

Bela shrugs nonchalantly.

“I’ve already explained to you my stance on the Angels and Dione’s relations with them.,” She states shortly.

“Then clarify,” Anna replies. “Elaborate. And explain what you would have relations be within the context of the Earthly Realms united.”

“Were it up to me, I’d have our Kingdom on good terms with yours,” Bela states. “In an ideal world, that’s how it would be.”

“And in the real world?” Anna picks up on the nuance of Bela’s language and frowns marginally, only letting a glimmer of concern flit across her features.

“That’s a little more difficult to say, and you’d have to ask each of the other rulers gathered at this table,” Bela gestures vaguely to the rest of the Humans around her.

“Well?” Anna raises her eyebrow at each of the faces of the rulers.

“I have no objections with remaining cordial with the Angels,” King Campbell shrugs. The Lords next to him nod and murmur in vague agreement. “It’s the Demons I don’t trust, and considering Dione’s history with them—”

“King Campbell, now is our chance to rewrite the future,” Bela bristles in her chair, clearly growing impatient. “By all means, let us learn from the past—but not dwell on it—and certainly not to the extent that we forget to move forward—”

“You would have us allied with the _Demons?”_ Campbell spits, turning in his seat to face Bela.

“I would have us allied with any Kingdom or people if their principles and morals were similar to my own—and by that I mean, fair and just—were it to benefit our own causes.”

“You speak of _principles,_ and yet—”

“King Campbell,” Anna looks as though she’s biting back the urge to sigh with exhaustion, “perhaps we ought to get back on subject?”

“Fine,” Campbell’s jaw clenches a moment. “Angel-Human relations would remain cordial, were it my decision.”

“Only cordial?” Anna raises her eyebrows at the Human King. “Nothing more?”

“Time would tell,” He shrugs. “I’m personally not hugely keen on forming alliances with Kingdoms or peoples that haven’t been proven trustworthy to my kingdom _personally_.”

“Understandable,” Anna nods brusquely. “And I appreciate your honesty—as I’m sure the rest of my family would.”

Campbell presses his lip together, subtle lines forming between his eyebrows, and nods once at Castiel’s sister.

“And what of Eofor?” Anna asks, turning to face a dark skinned Human wearing a navy doublet with gold fastenings and silver embroidery of what Castiel thinks are leaves and winding vines.

“Eofor has always held close affections for Angels,” He shrugs, a ghost of a wistful smile flickering across his features. “Considering our history—and despite the fact that over recent years, Angelkind appears to have favoured Hera, for whatever reason—we have always desired close relations with you and your people.”

Anna bows her head and smiles politely a moment.

“Thank you,” She nods. “Perhaps what with the unity of your four great Kingdoms, there would be a rekindling of Eofor and the Angel Kingdom’s relations.”

 “I certainly hope so,” He bows his head back at Castiel’s sister.

“King Henriksen,” One of the Lords sat beside the King of Eofor murmur something into his ear. He nods softly a moment, before turning back to Anna.

“My adviser has just reminded me of something,” A quiet frown forms on his features. “Your brother’s cancelled engagement with the King of Hera. How will this play into your relations with Humanity?”

Castiel had been praying that this wouldn’t be brought up. Now that it has, his insides begin to crumple with despair. He looks out the window with the siren on it, focussing on the setting sun’s glimmering light filtering softly through the creature’s hair. He fumbles with his hands underneath the table, refusing, more than ever, to glance over to Dean. His heart hurts with a kind of homesick feel; as though he has been away on a strange long journey for months and there is no sign of him returning to where he comes from.

“It won’t,” Anna replies firmly. Castiel’s eyes are stinging.

“How will you ensure that?” King Henriksen asks. “In Hera’s interest, I feel that I ought to point out that this factor may cloud some of your judgements on their account—and cause, though I hate to say it—a general bias against them.”

“I assure you that while your concerns are valid, it won’t happen.” Anna shakes her head. Castiel continues staring out the window.

“Yeah?” A voice that sends Castiel’s stomach lurching down into his gut spits suddenly. It is the first time in the proceedings that this Human has spoken up. “And how can you guarantee that?”

Anna looks across to Dean—apparently just as shocked as Castiel—her eyes wide, a defensive frown hardening across her features.

“What do you mean?” She asks, her expression turning into something defiant.

“How can you guarantee _any_ of what you just promised?” The green-eyed Human repeats, his top lip curling fiercely. He glares at Anna—pointedly _not_ at Castiel, his face prickling red with anger and resentment.

“I suppose you’ll simply have to take our word for it,” Anna replies coolly. Her face is firmer than ever, becoming as resolute and unreadable as a stone.

“Yeah, see, that just isn’t gonna happen,” Dean shakes his head dryly. “’Cause the days of me—of _Hera_ trusting the Angels? They’re done. Over. Finished.”

“Would you really cut off ties so readily?” Anna asks, inclining her head slightly to the side as she gazes thoughtfully at Dean. A quiet, permeating venom is dripping slowly into her tone, and it laces every one of her words with a fearsome kind of subtly that has Castiel feeling extremely nervous. “Merely for the sake of your own broken heart?”

“Try me,” Dean leers.

“Anna—” Castiel says quietly, pressing his hand to her arm as his voice trembles—he’s attempting to stop her from rising to Dean’s goading, but it is apparently to no avail. Anna shakes herself from Castiel’s grip without even turning back to look and him, and balls her fists as she continues to glare steadily at the Human.

“Why do you doubt so vehemently that the Angels would choose to act for your good?” She asks, her face turning a similar shade of red to that of her wings and hair. Castiel has to look away, creasing internally.

“You _really_ think I’m going to believe that you guys give a _shit?!”_ Dean spits incredulously. “That you actually _care?”_

“Why do you doubt it?!” Anna repeats, slamming the flats of her palms onto the table. The rulers of the Human Kingdoms flinch backward—that is, except for Bela, who regards the scene with something like quiet amusement, and King Henriksen, who looks more thoughtful than anything else. Dean, however, looks as though he is balanced on the knife’s edge before becoming livid, and it seems he is about to topple over the verge of the blade.

“—‘Cause the Angels – they don't care. I think maybe they just don't have the equipment to care. Seems like when they try, it just… breaks them apart,” Dean states quietly, his frame trembling with anger and something not unlike like grief. “Look at their High King. Look at his _twin._ Look at what happened to their _father._ Any Angel that feels anything is bad news for us.”

Castiel looks suddenly up at the Human, his heart in his throat, a simmering fury set into his blood. He doesn’t expect Dean’s eyes to graze over to his own face. Even less than this, he doesn’t expect Dean’s frame and expression to soften somewhat. He knows that the spark of hope it lights in his chest is futile, despondent, but he can’t help it. Even when Dean’s face hardens once again, and he looks quickly away from the Angel.

“What do you mean by that?” Castiel has somehow found his voice again—perhaps from the motion of looking Dean in the eye and having the Human return his gaze, even just for a moment. Dean’s gaze snaps back to Castiel, clearly just as shocked as the Angel is that he has somehow managed to speak. Castiel stares steadily back at the Human now, his heart hammering at the cage of his chest, as Dean’s face prickles with red.

“Lucifer, who killed my mother because your brother apparently loved one of us,” Dean replies flatly. A murmur of confusion breaks out across the table—are they familiar with Castiel’s brother’s name? Castiel cannot for the life of him think _how_ any of them would know of Michael’s twin, and yet apparently they _do_. Perhaps word of all that has occurred between the members of Castiel’s family has slipped down into the Human Kingdoms, also.

“Much as I enjoy watching the two of you battling out your personal life in front of all the Human royalty in our four Kingdoms,” Bela interrupts any response Castiel would have been able to think of, and his eyes flick guiltily back to the hostess, tearing themselves away from Dean, “perhaps now ought to be the time that I interrupt—before things escalate any further—and urge us all to move forward?”

Dean nods, having looked suddenly down, his face more heated than ever. Castiel worries at his lip and resumes his previous activity of staring out the window.

There is something different about Dean—Castiel can sense it, even from way across the table, even when Dean speaks, even when Dean _looks_ at him. And it’s more than him merely being bitter and broken about the expiration of his and Castiel’s relations; more than his recent delusions on the nature of Castiel and the rest of the Angels—something is off, something is different, something is _wrong._ Castiel frowns worriedly and swallows hard.

“Taxation,” King Campbell starts abruptly, looking over to Bela suddenly. “How would that work? Would each Kingdom tax their citizens as normal, and an additional tax be placed upon them, on behalf of our continued unity?”

“I’d feel uncomfortable with that principle,” The dark haired Lady—Pamela—presses her lips together. “Many of our citizens are already severely poor as it is—and how would this deal benefit _them?_ If they are to pay more taxes, shouldn’t they receive something directly from our unity?”

“Aside from better trade, peace, protection, and options for travel?” Bela raises her eyebrows at Lady Pamela.

“And what of the peasantry who merely work on farms? Who cannot afford to travel? What of those too old to travel? What—”

“Ideally, there would be some kind of minimum earning for those who would have to pay the tax. Either that, or a percentage of each of your Kingdom’s taxes would be redirected, or redistributed—”

“Why should we do that?” Campbell interrupts Bela again, his face and tone growing increasingly frustrated. The Queen somehow manages to maintain her own indifferently even and empty expression.

“Are the reasons I highlighted above not a good enough justification?” She asks, a little incredulously. “With our Kingdoms united, there would be peace between each of us—translating to fewer lives lost in combat—mutual protection, as enemies would be less inclined to attack us; knowing our increased strength—and if they _were_ to do so, our armies would be _more_ than capable of handling it—”

“And our trade links would be strengthened, also?” Henriksen asks. Bela smiles and nods.

“That’s the plan, yes.”

“It sounds a noble idea.”

“I’m not quite so keen,” Campbell replies.

“We can tell,” Lady Pamela looks as though she is resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“You certainly appear to have changed your tune—”

“—Because I expressed my concerns, and Queen Bela held a solution for them,” Pamela sighs exasperatedly.

“A _hypothetical_ solution—we don’t know that it will work,” Campbell corrects. Castiel groans softly and settles a little deeper into his chair. He catches Dean’s eye for a moment—and were things not as they are, Castiel would pull an exhausted expression, and Dean would snort lightly and a mirror it, both of them stifling their own laughter… but things are not as they used to be. And Castiel looks away, keeping his face emotionless, soul slowly dying out inside.

He stares down at the table as debate sparks and bubbles around him. He hears Anna sigh quietly from next to him. This is more exhausting—and for more reasons—than Castiel could possibly have anticipated.

“Perhaps we ought to adjourn a moment,” Queen Bela huffs out a resigned breath, pressing her thumb and forefinger to her temple and rubbing slowly. Castiel lets out an inward groan of relief—and by the looks of it, so do several others around the table. Campbell is still looking thoroughly argumentative, but despite this, he nods grudgingly and mutters an agreement, pushing back his chair and rising with his surrounding Lords and advisors.

 _“Come on, Castiel,”_ Anna says, tugging Castiel up onto his feet as she rises and tucks her chair into the table. _“Let’s get out of here a moment. I’ve got headpains to the stars and there’s no clear solution to any of these Humans’ problems in sight. I think I need a moment to cry cathartically somewhere.”_

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards despite himself, and he stands and follows his sister out of the hall as she tugs at the sleeve of his tunic.

 _“Where are we going, sister?”_ He asks, frowning lightly. Anna sighs again and steps out of one of the wide open doors leading to a small, well cultivated courtyard just outside, with the stride of one who undoubtedly knows where they are going. Castiel can smell the sea more than ever out here, and he breathes in the scent deeply, the tang of salt mingling in the air and now in his nostrils, along with the sweet scent of flowers hanging from the walls of the castle.

 _“Anywhere away from all those—”_ Anna cuts herself off and drags Castiel down some steps at the bottom of the courtyard, winding underneath a bridge and a narrow archway, before leading out to a rocky cliff quite far removed from the castle. Anna sits, sighing once more, on one of the wind-worn boulders looking out onto the sea. She slumps her shoulders, sitting with a slouched posture for the first time that day, groaning with fatigue. _“Idiots,”_ She finishes, breathing out the word exhaustedly. Castiel frowns and sits beside her, their wings brushing softly for a brief moment as he settles into his spot—rather uncomfortable as it is—on the great boulder.

 _“Queen Bela doesn’t seem much of an idiot,”_ He contends. Anna’s lips twitch marginally upwards.

 _“No, that’s true, I suppose,”_ She nods in agreement. _“She seems very level headed.”_

 _“And it’s not her fault that she can’t control the rest of them.”_ Castiel reminds his sister.

 _“That’s very true.”_ Anna agrees once more.

_“And the Lady Pamela—”_

_“—Seemed very rational.”_ Anna nods, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. She inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of the ocean, a subtle smile twitching at her lips.

 _“You like it down here?”_ Castiel asks, mirroring his sister’s expression almost unintentionally.

 _“I love it,”_ Anna confirms, breaking out into a beam. _“I always have.”_

 _“You’ve been here before?”_ Castiel asks, frowning suddenly.

 _“Once upon a time, Castiel, I wanted to_ live _here,”_ Anna laughs softly, her eyes still closed, running her hands over the coarse surface of the boulder they are seated on as though the touch is filling her with more life than she has ever been gifted before.

 _“What?”_ Castiel’s frown worms a little more across his features. _“You never told me that.”_

 _“No,”_ Anna shakes her head. _“I don’t expect I did. Michael wouldn’t have been best pleased if I had—but the thing is, little Seraph, I’m caring less and less for our King’s instructions with every passing day.”_

This does nothing to extinguish the confusion now burning brightly at Castiel’s gut.

_“You’re making very little sense.”_

_“That doesn’t surprise me,”_ Anna mumbles. _“I’m rather exhausted. From travel—and from Abra knows how many hours of sitting and listening to stubborn Humans sit and squabble over politics when very few of them seem to know how_ anything _works.”_

Castiel sighs and looks out over the sea in front of them.

 _“Why did you want to come and live down here?”_ He asks again, watching as waves crash upon and consume one another. _“And when?”_

 _“Why does_ anyone _want to come and live down the Human Kingdoms? Why did Michael? Why did_ you?”

 _“Love,”_ Castiel frowns.

 _“Love,”_ Anna repeats, lips twitching upwards, eyes slipping closed as though the word itself is food for her soul.

 _“You were in love?”_ Castiel asks. _“With a Human?”_

 _“There are more loves out there than the romantic kind, Castiel,”_ Anna reminds, looking back up at Castiel. Castiel nods and glances out at the cliffs, sea-birds swarming over their surfaces and gliding in the air ahead, crying loudly. _“I_ was _in love,”_ Anna continues, and Castiel’s gaze snaps back to his sister’s face, _“With the landscape. With the culture. With the people, with the emotions, with the_ reality _of it all.”_

 _“What does that mean?”_ Castiel frowns.

 _“You wanted to move to Hera, even though that castle is the ugliest I think I’ve ever seen.”_ Anna’s laughter bubbles over her lips before she appears able to stop it. _“The forests were beautiful, granted—but that_ palace? _A brick of carved grey stone and dark wood. Cruel-looking, imposing. It was built during a time when Humanity was feeling particularly practical and defensive—they were looking for something that appeared threatening to visitors—well, they succeeded on that front. They wanted something strong against attack—it’s strong against Human attack, to be sure, but as we’ve seen, when it comes to protection against Angels and Demons alike, it falls rather short.”_ She rolls her eyes, looking amused. _“What else? Oh, yes, their ugly, imposing towers and fortresses built as defences around the Kingdom. Well, at least that depletes the possibility of debate over land-boundaries. But the point still stands. Those buildings look_ disgusting. _Ugh,”_ She finishes.

 _“Running a Kingdom isn’t all about things looking nice,”_ Castiel bites back, feeling quietly offended. Anna glances at him and snorts.

 _“You’re feeling defensive.”_ She observes _“Sorry. All I’m saying is—Dean made all those other things worth it—so even though I didn’t have a ‘Dean’ of my own—I had friends, I had the sea and the open sky and the cliffs and the birds,”_ Anna gestures to the scenery in front of them, _“I had my affinity for the Human’s culture—and this—_ desire— _to feel things as they felt.”_

 _“As I feel things?”_ Castiel asks, glancing back at his sister. His face feels heavy. Anna presses her lips together and gives the younger Angel a soft smile.

 _“As you feel things,”_ She admits. _“I wanted to be able to feel in the way you feel things._ _So entirely. So unhesitantly and passionately—I wanted that. Angels and our suppression of emotions? It’s stifling. I hate it,”_ She laughs emptily.

 _“So why_ didn’t _you fall? Why did you choose this life?”_ Castiel asks, frowning.

_“I had my duties... And unfortunately, these didn’t co-inside with my desire to live amongst the Humans.”_

_“Duty?”_ Castiel almost glowers at the word.

 _“Duty,”_ Anna repeats, sounding slightly bitter, _“is of paramount importance when you are in a family such as ours.”_

 _“You mean it’s of paramount importance to Michael?”_ Castiel asks.

_“Michael considers all that occurred with Lucifer—and all that happened to our father as repercussions of this—to be due to his own personal shortcomings. He believes it’s entirely his fault.”_

_“I know that—”_ Castiel frowns, but Anna interrupts.

_“He takes it as a failing on his part to perform his duty. Not carrying it out when he should have. And now, duty is his primary concern—perhaps because he doesn’t want to repeat his past mistakes.”_

_“But he cannot_ force _the rest of us—”_

 _“He considers himself the head of the family, Castiel.”_ Anna sighs. _“Since father’s death, he believed it was he who should watch over each of us, as the oldest of the family.”_

_“He still—”_

_“Michael is as complex as the rest of us,”_ Anna runs a tired hand through her brilliant red hair. _“And not as ready to admit that—or as easy to read or predict—as others might be. Very often, Castiel, I face a great deal of difficulty in attempting to dissect his actions.”_

_“You mean his motivations are often unclear.”_

_“No,”_ Anna shakes his head. _“I believe he always acts in what he thinks is our family’s—and our people’s—interests. Either that, or he will be attempting to carry out his ‘duty’, whatever form that may take. It’s just that at some points in his life—increasingly often, in fact—his emotions have proven more than he can handle, and I don’t think he knows how to react to that.”_

_“Do you think he misses Lucifer?”_

_“I believe he misses him every day,”_ Anna presses her lips into a thin line.

 _“Do you think he still_ loves _Lucifer?”_

 _“I don’t—”_ Anna sighs and cuts herself off. _“I can’t believe Michael has been as close to_ anyone _as he once was to Lucifer.”_

Castiel frowns, about to protest that his sister has not answered his question _at all,_ but a servant coughing lightly into her closed fist interrupts him. He and his sister turn to face the girl.

“Her Majesty, Queen Bela, has called you back to the Great Hall. Discussions are commencing, once more.”

Castiel sighs lightly and stands, glancing at his sister’s exhausted expression.

“Thank you.” He nods politely to the servant, who smiles nervously and scurries away in response. Castiel’s lips twitch upwards.

 _“All things considered, Humans are shockingly endearing, are they not?”_ Anna laughs lightly at Castiel’s side. Castiel glances to his sister and chuckles softly.

 _“Yes,”_ He nods in agreement. _“Very.”_

 _“Come on,”_ Anna tugs at Castiel’s arm, pulling him back up the steps up to the castle.

 _“When did you visit this Kingdom, Anna?”_ Castiel asks, glancing over to his sister as the sea wind blows her hair all about her head; turning it into a tumult of red.

 _“When I was even younger than you, little brother.”_ She smiles, looking upwards at a few gulls that circle above their heads, calling out loudly into the open air to one another. _“It was—oh, perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this…”_ She laughs, the sound gorgeously musical. _“Well, I will, I suppose I’ve started now, so it would be unkind not to…”_

Castiel gives her a quietly grateful look at her words as they trudge up the steep slope they descended earlier.

 _“I—I had actually been forbidden to do so by Michael. Or, not forbidden, but—we didn’t visit the Human Kingdoms, anymore. Not since Lucifer left; and Michael realised he could not be with his beloved. This happened when I was nothing more than a baby, Castiel—I was so very young at the time, and so I never actually got to experience the Human world for myself. And so one day I just…_ flew…” She laughs, as though her words are providing her with some great sense of release, _“away from Evadne, where I of course lived at the time, and I landed here.”_ She gestures all around her, beaming warmly. _“It was so overwhelming and real and raw that I almost cried. And the people were so real and welcoming and kind, albeit a little cautious—even to a young Angel girl who could be no more than seventeen. And so I began to travel down here regularly; I made friends and formed relationships and as I said; fell in love with_ everything… _and then Michael found out, and forbade me from ever returning; saying that I was endangering the Kingdoms by doing this, that I was too young and had my duty back home… and of course those weren’t_ really _his reasons in forbidding me—but father sided with Michael, and the matter was decided.”_

She looks up at the clear, pale sky again.

 _“I have_ so _missed this place.”_

Castiel thinks he sees tears clouding her vision.

 _“All those friends I made—well, they’re probably dead,”_ She looks forlorn, suddenly. _“Of course.”_ She shakes her head. _“But they were good to me. Kind.”_ She sniffs suddenly and looks back up again, expression changing quickly. _“Here’s a good game—how many times do you bet King Campbell will disagree with the Queen of Dione, merely for the sake of it?”_

 _“Um—”_ Castiel’s confused though quietly sad laughter bubbles over his lips. _“I’m not quite sure—”_

_“I’m going to go for more than ten.”_

_“That’s fairly low.”_ Castiel points out.

 _“You think he’ll venture above that mark?”_ Anna snorts incredulously.

“Way _above.”_ Castiel tilts his head back and laughs. _“Twenty.”_

“Twenty?!” Anna repeats, mocking a horrified tone.

 _“We’ll be here for about three days.”_ Castiel shakes his head mournfully.

_“With no breaks.”_

_“Kill me now,”_ Castiel groans as the re-enter the castle—but freezes in his tracks as he spots Dean.

Dean spots him too—he is in the presence of another man—a man Castiel has never seen before. The two of them had been previously caught in deep conversation—the man, whom Castiel assumes is a knight, looks older than both himself and Dean. He has a tall, wide and muscular frame, a short beard and gentle grey eyes. Castiel presses his lips together—something jealous curls in his gut while his heart tears a little more in half—his eyes are threatening to glaze over with the sting of tears, but Anna tugs sharply at Castiel’s sleeve, pulling him into the hall, and honestly Castiel is rather thankful for the touch.

 _“Ignore him,”_ Anna mutters softly. _“Pretend he’s not here, that nothing hurts, and things will be a lot easier today.”_

_“Easier said than done.”_

_“I know, but… just, pretend everything’s fine, just for now. And then when we get home, we can do whatever you like to make you feel better. Whether that’s finding some beautiful young Angel for you to fall in love with—”_ Castiel snorts at the unlikeliness of the sentiment. _“—Or reading, or talking about how much of an ass Dean is—”_

Castiel laughs and slips his arm around Anna’s shoulder, squeezing her into his side.

 _“There’s not a day that passes where I’m not grateful that I have you,”_ He mutters warmly to his sister.

 _“Likewise,”_ Anna chuckles. _“It’s just quite depressing that you stand so much taller than me, now, and that you can slip your arm around me with quite so much ease—while I can barely reach your_ _shoulder.”_

 _“You’re exaggerating.”_ Castiel chuckles.

 _“Yes, I am, rather a lot,”_ Anna admits, giggling lightly. _“But you_ have _grown an extraordinary amount.”_

 _“That’s what people do, sister,”_ Castiel reminds.

 _“You’ve turned rather patronising in your years, too,”_ Anna chortles, seating herself at the table once more. Castiel snorts and sits himself next to her.

_“I learnt from the best.”_

Anna elbows him lightly, suppressing a smile threatening to spread wide across her lips.

 _“I think I prefer attending discussions such as these in your company far more than either Gabriel or Michael,”_ She mumbles softly. Castiel cannot help but break out into a beam at her words.

 _“And why is that?”_ He asks, attempting to keep the amusement warming his insides from causing too many inflections in his voice.

 _“Because Gabriel—as you’ve noted on multiple occasions—is an ass,”_ Anna explains. Castiel snorts into his fist in response. _“And Michael is nowhere near as fun as you,”_ She finishes, smiling warmly. Castiel grazes his hand against his sister’s shoulder.

_“I really am impossibly glad to have you, Anna.”_

_“You’ve gone soft,”_ Anna chuckles, looking away, her face tinged with pink. Castiel rolls his eyes and is about to respond, when Queen Bela and Dean seat themselves at the table—the man Dean was with just a moment earlier would seem to have disappeared—and just like that, the discussion has commenced once more.

Castiel sighs inwardly and settles a little further into his seat. He thinks he can feel Dean’s gaze press at the side of his face as he turns to look at Queen Bela—but he doesn’t look back at the Human. To do so would be to break his heart a little further. Eventually the discussion dies down a little, and Queen Bela rises and exits to speak alone with Campbell, who still seems to be stubbornly refusing to cooperate for any given amount of time. Castiel glances up to see Dean conferring with the same knight he was speaking to earlier, who has appeared beside him at the table, and something fractures inside the Angel’s heart to witness this.

Castiel’s jaw clenches—he rises and pushes back his chair, ready to leave. Anna’s hand touches his arm lightly.

_“Castiel—”_

_“I need some air,”_ Castiel shakes his head and sighs tiredly, pulling away from his sister. He exits stiffly, feeling more pairs of eyes than just his sister’s trained on him. Once out of the hall, he takes a gasping sigh of a breath in, then another out. He’s afraid he’s going to cry; though he is not at all sure why this is.

Nobody had ever told him love would hurt this much.

“Castiel,” A familiar voice, rough and warm with gravel sounds behind the Angel. Castiel’s heart stutters and stops inside his chest—because it feels like _years_ since he last heard Dean speak to him in this way, let alone heard something like _warmth_ rumbling at the Human’s voice. But the little hope he had lit inside the cage of his chest dissipates quickly as he turns to face Dean, his frame rigid and face set in unreadable resolution.

“Dean—”

“I just—” Dean shakes his head, brushing Castiel’s moment of speech aside. “—I’ve been talking to Sammy, and I—” He cuts himself off and stares at the floor, his jaw clenching and unclenching a moment. “—Whatever you felt for me—and honestly, I really don’t know what that was, anymore—but, whatever it was… I want you to know that everything I told you was true. That all of it was real. That I really _did—_ that I _still_ —”

And then the Human stops and looks away again, eyes clouded over. His body trembles as a feather would in the wind. Castiel wants desperately to reach over to the Human and touch him lightly, press his hand to Dean’s body and remind him that he’s _here,_ he always will be, that Castiel will never leave him.

“You told me you _cared._ You _promised_ me you’d always be there.” Dean breaks out, as though the words have been pressing at his lungs for so long that to contain them for any longer would be agony—and as he snaps his gaze back up to the Angel tears begin to glisten in the Human’s eyes. “—You promised, but you _lied_ to me,” He repeats, his voice rough and broken in his throat. Castiel takes a step towards Dean, and senses once again the strange something in the air, something about the Human that seems _off,_ wrong, strange. “You could’ve just gone through with it as an arranged marriage—but you made me believe you—and wasn’t it cruel enough, to force a Human into marriage? Why did you have to lie? And you _promised_ me you’d always be there—”

“I did promise,” Castiel nods quietly. “And I am.”

“You weren’t—” Dean shakes his head, tears brimming at his eyes. “You _lied_ —”

“No, Dean,” Castiel shakes his head quickly, softly. “I _didn’t,_ please believe me—”

“You—”

“I don’t know what it was Lucifer told you—but it wasn’t true. Or, not all of it. Not the things he said about _me_. Not the things he said about my feelings for you.”

“That’s not true—”

“It _is,_ Dean—I know you’re confused—but he lied—he lied, and of course I cared for you, and of course I’ll always be here for you—I’ll never leave you—”

Dean shakes his head and takes a step back, but Castiel presses forward, closing the space created between them with just as much ease.

“Don’t—” Dean shakes his head, almost shouting with his raw, broken voice, holding out his arms to stop Castiel coming any closer, and the Angel stops, his gaze pressing at Dean’s face—Dean’s eyes seem so different, now, and Castiel cannot pinpoint why or how for the life of him. They are filled with more pain and exhaustion than Castiel had previously believed Humans with their flimsy and changeable and oh so breakable hearts could cope with.

“There is something different about you,” Castiel frowns slowly. “... _In_ you, perhaps…” Dean freezes, eyeing Castiel slowly and nervously—the stabbing silence that falls between them lasts only a moment, before Dean shakes his head sharply and attempts to pat Castiel on his shoulder—which is such an odd motion for Dean to take up at this moment, so unnatural considering his current feelings towards Castiel—and he seems to realise this, because he falters a moment and the same anger and bitterness flash behind his eyes as though he is reminding himself yet again of all that he believes that Castiel has done to him.

“I’m fine—” He shrugs, not at all convincingly, but Castiel seizes the Human’s wrist—Dean’s face hardens with both resentment and fear—and instinctively, though he has no idea why, Castiel turns it over, tugging up the sleeve of Dean’s shirt on his right arm to reveal a red, angry mark in foreign lettering that seems oddly and unpromisingly familiar burnt onto his forearm. It stirs something dark deep inside of Castiel’s gut to gaze at, and in the back of his mind something flashes with warning—he knows what this mark means. Or, he thinks he does. Perhaps it is instinctive, or the memory of a memory, but he looks back up to Dean’s face to glare at the Human, and finds the Human glaring back at him just as forcefully, lip curling.

“What have you _done?”_ Castiel’s voice is lower and more dangerous than he has ever heard it before, and he glowers at the Human, who glares defensively back at him, wrenching his arm sharply out of Castiel’s grip.

“It’s the means to an end,” He replies, voice trembling slightly, but he speaks with a forced firmness. Castiel knows that Dean is putting this on—he _always_ does this when feeling angry and defensive yet afraid, and resentment and frustration boil up inside of Castiel in the knowledge that Dean is just so _fucking impossible_ to deal with—so contrary and stubborn and _stupid._

“Dammit, Dean—” Castiel sighs, ready to give Dean any kind of lecture he can think of on what it is the Human has done by consorting with Demons and what is more, Demon _magic_ —but Dean merely raises his eyebrows at the Angel, the circles under his eyes becoming still more evident, and something inside of Castiel softens. Something inside of him fills with a desperate longing and desire, and he _misses_ the Human, and he wants to be able to say this to him, but he can’t. Because all that they used to be is now broken. Dean’s eyes are set in deeper to his skull, somehow—they look more tired than Castiel has ever seen them, and as Dean presses his lips together, he averts his gaze uncomfortably. “—Just—” Castiel is struggling to find his words. “Just don’t make any more deals with Demons—don’t consort with them any more—I need to speak to Anna—I mean it—we can fix all of this, I’m sure—we can—”

“What if I don’t want it fixed?” Dean asks, raising his eyebrows at Castiel as he shifts his gaze back to the Angel. “What if this is the best way? What if this is the _only_ way?”

“The only way to _what?”_ Castiel frowns, stepping closer to the Human, who takes another step back. “God, Dean, what are you talking about? What have you done?!”

“The only way to save—” He shakes his head suddenly, cutting himself off. “—It doesn’t matter,” He finishes, looking away, a troubled frown pinching his eyebrows together.

“Yes, it does,” Castiel replies firmly. “Tell me—”

“Since when did _you_ fucking care, anyway?” Dean snaps, his voice raising suddenly. “Since when did you _actually_ give a shit about me and my feelings?”

“Since the moment we met, Dean!” Castiel scowls. “Ever since—”

“Bullshit!” Dean bites back quickly.

“You are _not_ inside of my mind, Human!” Castiel shouts. “You never were! You _never_ knew what I was thinking!”

“Yeah,” Dean glowers. “That’s why it was so easy for you to betray me.”

“I _never—”_

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, Samuel enters the empty hall in which Dean and Castiel are stood, and stops when he realises who it is he has interrupted Castiel mid-shout.

“Sorry—” He shakes his head, ready to step out, but Dean turns and shoves past him.

“Don’t be,” He mutters. “I was just leaving, anyway.”

“You can’t save everyone, Dean,” Castiel reminds, his voice breaking off in his throat. Dean falters for just a moment, only turning his head marginally over his shoulder to mutter a bitter;

“Yeah. Like you’d fucking know.”

Castiel clenches his fists and digs his nails into his palms to stem the press of tears at his eyes as Dean turns away again.

“C’mon,” The Human tugs at Sam’s sleeve, but the younger boy does not exit just yet. Dean’s lip curls, but he storms back into the Great Hall, not looking back. Samuel looks at Castiel a moment with his big, hazel eyes, the worried expression gnawing at his features a moment.

“Hello, Samuel,” Castiel nods cordially, blinking back his tears. He swallows around the lump inside his throat, resisting the urge to sob or yell or both. “You’re well, I trust?”

Sam shrugs and glances down a moment.

“Listen, Cas,” He starts, his voice uneven. “Dean—Dean doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s—he’s getting more and more paranoid—and he’s not himself—and if he _was_ himself, and if things hadn’t happened the way they did—well, maybe Dean would believe the truth—the truth about you, and everything you—” He cuts himself off a moment, as though thinking over how to phrase his next sentence, before speaking again. “And I know—I know you always had feelings for him. I know you weren’t lying to him, ever. You’d never do that.”

Castiel sighs softly.

“Thank you, Sam,” He nods. His eyes hurt with the threatening press of tears. Samuel’s lips twitch upwards. He, much like his brother, does not seem himself. He is pale and has sunken eyes and dark bags beneath each of them, and something about him seems flimsier, more breakable than before. “Sam?” Castiel calls, just as it looks as though the younger Human is bracing himself to leave their admittedly rather awkward interaction. Sam looks up questioningly at Castiel. “You keep an eye on him,” Castiel says softly. Something in Samuel’s expression breaks—in an instant, it is more exhausted, more despondent than ever. He nods, the worry gnawing at his features, his eyes red, and leaves quickly. Perhaps he does not wish for Castiel to see him cry. Castiel thinks he understands.

 

…

 

 _“Brother,”_ Gabriel grins as soon as Castiel and Anna arrive at the ornate gates of Theia. _“And sister,”_ He beams at Anna, pulling their sister tight into his arms before turning to Castiel again and doing the same. Castiel muffles a greeting in return into Gabriel’s tight grip of an embrace.

It has been several months since Castiel was last in his brother’s Kingdom—the sight of it stretching out ahead of him is somewhat relieving—something new and refreshing hangs quietly in the air. Castiel glances up at the huge golden gates of the inner city, as tall as they are wide, beautiful and welcoming in design. This city was never designed to be imposing. It is known by many as The Travellers’ Haven, or the Kingdom of Gold, and with good reason. None of its design is intimidating, though all of it is magnificent and elegant.

The city is a sanctuary for travellers, merchants and traders, as well as those fleeing from their past for whatever reason. Frankly, Castiel feels as though he is doing the same. Toward the top of the gates, and divided equally between each of them, lies the golden emblem of a phoenix, wings spread wide apart on either side of it as it gazes down at Castiel with fiery eyes that ought not to seem so passionate and animated considering their stillness. Golden carved flames surround the bird, and seem to ripple off the image, their tongues winding their way in spiral-like patterns around the entire body of each of the gates; Castiel is thus forced to remind himself again that there is a very good reason for all the Angel Kingdoms being renowned amongst the Earthly Realms for their architecture.

The gates swing open as Gabriel draws a step back from Castiel and toward the city.

“Perhaps we ought to make our way inside?” He asks with a grin. Castiel’s lips twitch upwards involuntarily.

“Perhaps,” He nods in confirmation, glancing back at Anna. She smiles warmly at the look Castiel gives her and presses a soft hand to his shoulder to push him forward.

“It’s been a while since you were here last,” Gabriel states, ambling along the clustered streets lined with buildings all stretched up high above their heads, all interconnected with arches and bridges and balconies, all built of pale shimmering stone and light wood. The sun dances brightly off their surfaces. Theia holds so much life.

Angels move about their business around them, busy with their affairs and chores—sounds of those haggling with shopkeepers or calling for their children or friends swim gently through the air, not intrusive nor angry, not urgent in the slightest. A sense of peace is already beginning to wash over Castiel. It’s warmer here than in Evadne; Theia’s mountains are somewhat lower than the aptly named High Kingdom’s, and a little further south.

“It has been.” Castiel nods absently, his eyes darting all around him. An Angel with hair as flaming a red as his sister’s stands behind a market-stand, handing another Angel a brilliant cloth of shimmering emerald. For a horrible moment, the colour reminds Castiel of Dean’s eyes. He scans the rest of the table’s contents—all of silks and other fine cloths, vibrant in colour, before making eye-contact with the trader for only a second. The young merchant winks at Castiel with a dancing, sharp brown gaze. Castiel flushes. Gabriel catches the interaction and smirks softly.

“You know, Castiel, you’ve become quite the heartthrob over the past few years. Have you even realised that?”

“No, he definitely hasn’t,” Anna grins widely, pinching Castiel lightly on his wing. “If his head were any further up in the clouds, we wouldn’t be able to see it.”

“If his head were any further up in the clouds, he probably wouldn’t know the rest of us _existed,”_ Gabriel chuckles. Castiel rolls his eyes and looks away. “You know, little Sarim, ought to find a companion during your stay here. You’re looking a little lonely.”

“What makes you think I _want_ a companion?” Castiel asks, a frown pinching at his features. “And in any case, I’m not sure the _company_ you have in mind is the kind that I desire.”

“Whatever you say, Cassie,” Gabriel says in mock-surrender, holding up his hands in some kind of sign of a teasing defeat. “Still hung up on Dean, are we?”

“I’m not sure that ‘hung up’ is quite the expression that I would use to describe it, no,” Castiel scowls over to his sibling. “And still paying others for the pleasure of their company, are we?” He returns.

“I don’t _have_ to pay,” Gabriel grins widely. “Lovers flock to me, in any case. And it’s not as though there’s anything _wrong_ with the profession of— _paid company,”_ He says, grinning and waggling his eyebrows—Castiel blushes and looks away, nauseated, “anyway. So stop being pretentious.”

“—If Michael could hear you—” Anna sighs, cutting her brother off with a tired tone.

“Michael isn’t here, thank Abra,” Gabriel brushes off with a careless shrug. His expression turns teasing again as his gaze returns to Castiel. “And still a virgin, are we?”

Castiel scowls and scuffs his foot on the ground with how hard he begins stomping through the town.

“Don’t rise to it, Cassie,” Anna reminds. “He’s only teasing.”

“He knows _nothing_ ,” Castiel glares at his brother. “Nothing at all.”

“That’s because you never _share_ anything, Sarim.” Gabriel rolls his eyes in an over-punctuated manner, as though Castiel is being exceedingly difficult _not_ to be exasperated by. “You never tell us how you feel or what’s going on with you and—”

“—That’s because it’s _over,_ Gabriel,” Castiel cuts across his sibling before he can speak any further. “And I don’t want to talk—or even _think_ about it, anymore.”

A stabbing silence follows Castiel’s words wherein Anna glares harshly at their brother. Castiel probably ought not to be so defensive, but he’s tired—especially after his trip to Dione; especially after seeing Dean with his companion _—_ whatever kind of companionship it is the two of them happen to share.

Gabriel lets out a soft, remorseful sigh from next to Castiel and makes his way up the white-gold steps of the palace, the surfaces of which are covered with winding golden vines and leaves pressed into the rock.  These shimmer in the sunlight. Castiel and Anna follow slightly behind. Even as siblings, it is rude to impose on one another’s kingdoms.

“I hope you pick up over your stay here, brother,” Gabriel says with a small, apologetic smile. “You’re no fun when you’re upset.”

“I fear that I’ll remain ‘no fun’ for the rest of my life, in that case,” Castiel admits, looking away.

“I’m sure you’re wrong,” Anna frowns. “And definitely exaggerating. You’ll pick up. You just need time away from Humans and their—”

“It’s not that Dean cancelled our engagement, anymore,” Castiel bites, interrupting his sister. Both Gabriel and Anna turn to frown at him.

“Then what is it?” Anna asks.

Castiel bites his lip nervously, unsure of how to answer.

“I don’t know…” He admits. “But Dean is—” He pauses. “I _really_ don’t know,” He says. He glances back up to his siblings. “Perhaps we ought to discuss this inside.”

Gabriel presses his lips together and finishes his ascent up the steps. The doors of the palace are left wide open, inviting, and Castiel and Anna follow their brother through them.

They make their way into one of the palace chambers.

“So, Castiel, what is it that’s bothering you?” Gabriel asks, sitting at the head of the great oak table placed in the centre of the room. Castiel turns to face his brother, sighing and sitting down.

 “Dean,” He starts, watching as his brother’s lips twitch instantaneously upwards.

“So it _is_ about Dean!” He grins, his serious façade now all but completely forgotten.

“I think there’s something wrong with him,” Castiel clenches his jaw, ignoring his brother’s infuriating mannerisms as best he can.

“What?” Anna asks, frowning softly. She presses her lips together before speaking again. “He did seem a little— _off—_ for want of a better word, in Dione.” She admits.

“He did.” Castiel nods.

Gabriel’s grin falls somewhat.

“Why do you think that?”

“He wasn’t himself,” Castiel shrugs.

“Could that not be explained by a broken heart?”

Castiel looks down, his own heart aching somewhat, and shakes his head.

“No,” He says decisively. “Definitely not.”

“Then what do you think is wrong with him? What makes you think there _was_ something wrong?”

“He—” Castiel is struggling to find his words. “—He looked unwell. Very much so. As did his brother.”

“Perhaps they were just ill?”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “That can’t have been it.”

“Perhaps you just _want_ something to be wrong, as an excuse to think about him? Or be sad?” Gabriel suggests. Castiel looks up and squints at his brother. However unusual it is for him to come up with a comment both as perceptive and serious as this one, this isn’t the case.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head again. “Something was very wrong with him, I’m certain of it.”

“What do you think it was, then?” Anna asks, leaning forward from where she sits and brushing the tips of her fingers across the back of Castiel’s hand.

Castiel presses his lips together, his face lining with worry, before replying.

“He’d visited one of the Demon Kingdoms only a few months prior to our meeting in Dione. On more than one occasion, I suspect.”

Anna’s frown weaves its way across her face.

“And what did he do there?” She asks.

“The first visit—” Castiel sighs and breaks off. “I don’t think anything happened to him, specifically. But something made him go back again—something made it so that he _had_ to go back again—and then something bad happened. Something really bad.”

“Castiel, what do you mean?” Anna asks. Her expression is more worried than Castiel has seen it in a long time.

“I don’t know, for certain—” He stammers.

“Then what _do_ you know?”

“—I saw—on his arm—”

“Saw what?” His sister presses.

“A mark,” Castiel answers, strangely reluctant to speak, as though to name it is to will bad luck into existence. “I don’t know what it meant—I only know that it was in one of the Demonic languages—one of the most ancient of all of them; it looked like some of the runes I have studied with my tutor. I could— _tell_ —that was what it was. And I—”

Gabriel’s face has turned suddenly more sombre than Castiel thinks he has ever seen it.

“Dean was wearing a Demon mark?”

“I don’t—” Castiel stammers. “I don’t know _what—”_

“As a sign of solidarity?” Anna raises her eyebrows, glancing worriedly over to Gabriel for a moment. He glances back at her, the look he gives in response supposedly intended not to be for Castiel’s eyes also, but the younger angel stares pointedly at his siblings, dissecting each of their movements in an attempt to untangle all that they believe to be occurring. Gabriel shakes his head once, shortly, to Anna’s question, pressing his lips together. Anna looks as though she is not surprised by his answer and is instead rather disappointed. But surely Dean not showing solidarity with the Demons would be a good thing? The Angels are at war with them, after all, and—

“You’re _sure_ the mark was Demon?” Gabriel asks, leaning forward from where he sits. It’s less out of interest and more out of worry.

He finds it horribly unnerving to see his brother in a mood so unusually severe.

“I’m sure,” Castiel nods. “I mean—I’ve only seen a few Ancient Demon texts, and I could never decipher them—I never properly learnt—but…”

“But you could recognise it,” Gabriel nods, sighing softly—in defeat?—and looking down at his hands, crossed in front of him and resting softly on the table. It’s a statement, not a question, as though he understands. Castiel nods.

“Essentially, yes.”

“Not a tattoo of sorts?” Anna asks. “A sigil, perhaps?”

Castiel shakes his head slowly. Anna looks caught on the knife’s edge between crestfallen and fearful.

“It was like it was burnt onto his skin, the way one would mark cattle. But… angrier—the mark had not healed the way other burns would; it was more raw, almost _glowing—_ ”

Anna’s face crumples still further. Gabriel looks down.

“As though with magic?”

“As though with magic.”

“Castiel, could you tell me what it looked like?” Anna asks. She is the sibling to lean closer toward Castiel, this time. Her red hair, untied, brushes the softly glittering surface of the granite table they sit at.

Castiel nods again.

“It was like…” He struggles to recall, struggles to find his words. “Like a rod, or a scythe. That sort of shape. With two short marks beneath the blade of the scythe, if you like, one after the other. That’s how I remember it.”

“Could you draw it?”

Castiel nods, pacing over to the corner of the room where a roll of parchment lies next to a quill and pot of ink, ready for the purpose of drawing up treaties or charters.

He sits down again and sketches out as rough an outline of what he saw on Dean’s forearm as he can.

Gabriel looks back up to Castiel, now. His face is set hard with worry and fear and Castiel’s heart rises into his throat because the look is the most unpromising thing he thinks he’s ever beheld; and then he turns to his sister—kind, brave, impossible Anna—and he realises that _this_ is the most unpromising expression he thinks he’s ever seen. He’s seen her afraid before. Only once—only when Michael looked as though he were about to smite her off of the earth for comparing him to Lucifer—and now she looks filled with more terror than Castiel would have ever thought her capable.

“What?” He asks. But somehow, in the pit of his soul—and he has no clue of how _exactly_ this could be—he thinks he already knows. “What is it?”

“We need to tell Michael,” Is all Anna says, her throat dry and rough. “We need to summon him here, right now. I’m sorry Castiel—but these are matters far beyond our capabilities.”


End file.
